Don't Try to Change Me
by EGB Fan
Summary: The difficulty of living in LA seems to be telling on Peter, and he's moved the family back to New York. But Oscar is far from happy about it.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **_Ghostbusters_ © Dan Aykroyd, Harold Ramis and Columbia Pictures. John and Eden Spengler are the original creations of Fritz Baugh; Charlene Zeddemore was created by Fritz Baugh, and developed by Brian Reilly and myself. All other original characters are my own creations.

_Ghostbusters: _**Don't Try to Change Me**

Part 1

**New York City, February 2002**

The baby, of the two people there, was the only one to acknowledge his arrival. She gave a small exclamation, held out her fat little hands and fixed him with an angelic smile, totally devoid of recognition but nonetheless hugely flattering.

"Hey there!" Peter Venkman, knowing that she didn't have the faintest idea who he was but still feeling like the most special person in the whole world, picked her up and started jigging her about, saying whatever came into his head in the usual patronising tones with which one addresses a baby. "How cute are you? I wish my kids were still babies. They were beautiful babies, and they didn't talk back then. You're getting big now, aren't you? Now _there's_ something I don't say to a lot of women. I'd get a slap round the face if I said that to Janine."

"If you said to her what you say to most women," said Janine Spengler, "I would feel it my civic duty to have you arrested."

Peter looked at her. "Oh, good - I'm not invisible to everyone but this kid."

"Her name's Conchita."

"I know. Poor baby." He looked back at Conchita and resumed talking in his baby-voice. "And I thought 'Oscar' was bad enough. Some people don't know how to give their kids sensible names, do they?" Conchita laughed. "Do they!" She laughed again. "Aww, thanks for that, honey - it's nice to feel welcome."

Janine put down her ballpoint pen and looked up at him. "I'm very sorry, Dr. Venkman. Welcome back. How was your journey?"

"Nightmare."

"How are you settling into the new house?"

"Nightmare."

"How's the family?"

"Nightmare."

"All right, fine, I won't talk to you."

"No, no, talk to me," Peter said hastily, trying to hold her gaze as she turned it back towards her work. "I'd just rather not talk about the family just now."

As far as his family was concerned, Peter had not been having a good day. Come to that, he had not been having a good couple of months. Since the decision to move became final, his stepson, quite frankly, hated him. The transformation was astonishing. Oscar had always been so good-tempered, so easy-going… so _nice_. He was a nice kid. Peter loved him, and for well over thirteen years the feeling had been mutual. But now…

So far nothing had been worse than the morning of their departure, and the night before. Oscar simply refused to pack. His decision to leave his bedroom door wide open while he read up on the album charts was quite deliberate; he had wanted to be found _not_ packing, with piles of clothes on the floor and all of his possessions still in their places.

Peter found him, as planned, and stated the obvious: "You're not packed."

"I'm not packed," said Oscar, "because I have absolutely no intention of leaving."

"Well," said Peter, "I'm going to make damn sure you're coming with us, but I don't mind taking you and leaving your stuff."

He had hoped that Oscar would be scared into submission, but his room was in exactly the same state the following morning. Even when they were loading the cab to the airport he didn't give in. He knew that his parents wouldn't take him all the way to New York with nothing to wear - they could hardly send him to school naked, and he was very aware of what he could do if they tried it - and he was actually going to make Peter physically pack up all of his possessions and transport them himself. Oscar certainly didn't imagine that the stunt would change anything; it was designed purely to make Peter feel guilty. And it certainly worked. When she began to get anxious about missing the flight, Peter's wife Dana found him carefully rolling up posters and securing them with elastic bands.

"You're not packing the posters," she said.

Peter, looking down at the rolled-up Red Hot Chili Peppers poster in his hand, feigned puzzlement. "Aren't I?"

"Leave them. And the CDs, and the ghetto blaster, and the walkman - it'll serve him right." She would have mentioned the two guitars - one acoustic, one electric (boy, but that kid was spoilt) - but Oscar was not letting those out of his sight.

Peter, who had thought on more than one occasion that Dana could be a little too strict, was genuinely shocked. "No," he said.

"He can live without all that."

"Physically, yes, but he'll never be happy without his music."

"So use it to teach him a lesson. I heard you last night, Peter: 'I don't mind taking you and leaving your stuff'."

Peter winced. It sounded horrible. "I shouldn't have said that. He's just angry - I'm not going to punish him and I'm not going to play games."

"You're too soft on them," said Dana. "Both of them."

"Perhaps," said Peter. "But I don't think it would be very sensible of me to push him further away - do you?"

Dana sighed resignedly. "No, I suppose not."

Now Oscar was in his new home, which he swore would never really be his home, refusing to _un_pack. That was no skin off Peter's nose, though, and Oscar knew it. He just wasn't ready yet to apply any personal touches to a room that he simply could not accept as his own. _His_ room was back in Los Angeles, stripped and abandoned.

"So." Peter attempted to regain Janine's attention. He didn't want to talk about his family, or the move, so what _did_ he want to talk about? "Is Egon around?"

"He's upstairs with the twins," said Janine.

"Oh, yeah - how are they?"

"Flourishing."

"Kids out on a call?" Perhaps, Peter thought, he shouldn't call them that - two of those kids were the parents of the kid in his arms.

"Yes," said Janine.

"What is it?"

"Ghost kid's been bothering some family who just moved here. So there you go - you can't be having as much trouble settling in as they are."

x x x

There were cardboard boxes all over the floors, and what furniture was there was covered with dustsheets. The Wilsons were your average nuclear family: mother, father, three-year-old girl, six-month-old baby boy, boisterous golden Labrador. Roland Jackson was more interested in the baby, Harry, than he was in the ghost, so he stayed in the kitchen and chatted to the mother about feeding habits and such while Garrett Miller, Kylie Griffin and Eduardo Rivera did their job.

"Of course," said Garrett, "everyone gets the creeps in houses where everything's covered over with dustsheets. You just never know what might be underneath them."

"Well," said Kylie, indicating with a tilt of the head, "that one looks like a piano… that's a chair… I don't know, though - some of these could be anything. Personally, I think they'd feel a lot better if they just got rid of some of these white sheets and dusted a bit and put up some family photos or something. I'm just _not_ getting any readings."

"Total waste of time," Eduardo surmised, though he was still scanning the room with a PKE meter. "Janine had better charge them extra for this. Whoa!"

Garrett and Kylie whipped round to face him, hands on proton guns. But then they all relaxed when they saw that it was just Laura, the little girl. She had been freaking Eduardo out ever since the team arrived. She was unnaturally pale, her hair was almost as light as her skin and she had this way of just standing and staring.

"He's here," Laura said simply. "I've seen him."

"Are you sure it wasn't just a dustsheet, sweetie?" Garrett asked, with a patronising smile.

"I've seen him," said Laura. "It's a boy."

"How many times have you seen him?" asked Kylie, in businesslike tones. She wouldn't talk to Conchita like that, but even now that she was a mother she just couldn't seem to change the way she was with other people's children.

"Twice yesterday," said Laura. "Once this morning." She pointed over Eduardo's shoulder. "There."

"Chrissake," muttered Eduardo, hastily backing away from her.

"He's not here now," said Kylie.

"He will be."

No one expected to get much more out of Laura. Her description of the ghost had been vague, and with the possible exception of Harry, who couldn't talk at all, no one else had seen him. Harry was a suspected witness because, shortly after the family arrived at the house, he had started screaming louder than he ever had in his life for no apparent reason. His mother reported feeling suddenly cold when the crying started, but even she accepted that such memories could not be relied upon. Harry, she said, had calmed down as soon as she took him out of the room.

Laura left silently. Eduardo breathed out audibly and said, "_Man_, that kid's creepy."

"You're going to have one of those in about two or three years," Garrett pointed out.

"Yeah, well, hopefully she won't be _weird_," said Eduardo. "And at least she's got some colour. Have Laura's parents actually mentioned her to us? I think _she's_ a ghost."

"They mentioned her to Janine when the call came in," said Garrett. "And when we got here Mrs. Wilson said, 'My daughter saw him in the living room'."

"That's not her daughter, then," said Eduardo.

"Don't be ridiculous," said Kylie. "She didn't give off a reading."

"Who didn't give off a reading?"

They all turned to see Roland standing in the doorway, with Harry on one arm.

"Laura," said Garrett. "You _are_ going to give that back before we go, aren't you?"

Roland looked blank. "Give what back? Oh." He looked at Harry. "Yeah, sure. Isn't he cute? Why would Laura give off a reading? She's not a ghost."

"Eddie thinks she is."

"She's not a ghost, Eduardo - she's just anaemic."

"Anaemic?" Kylie raised her eyebrows. "You really _are_ friendly with Mom."

"She says she doesn't feel comfortable here either," said Roland. "The husband hasn't noticed."

"There's no ghost," said Garrett.

"Hmm…" Roland looked vaguely around the room, as though in the hope of suddenly noticing a ghost in the corner. "Well, let's go over the whole house before we tell her _that_. Anyone checked the basement yet?"

"Of course," said Kylie. "Nothing."

"Right, well." Roland raised his eyes and said, "There's an attic too."

x x x

Oscar's room had it in a bed, several cardboard boxes and Oscar himself. He was sitting on the bed, just staring into the middle distance. Dana had only been angered by his attitude until very recently, but now she was beginning to worry. Seeing him like that, so subdued, brought tears to her eyes. Eventually she plucked up the courage to enter his room, sat down on the bed beside him and said gently, "I wish you'd unpack."

Oscar shook his head. "I can't." He was facing away from her. All she could see was the dark hair splayed across his shoulders, for once allowed to fall into disrepair.

"I think you'll feel better if you start making this room feel like yours."

"Bullshit I will."

"Oscar!"

"How could you let him _do_ this to me, Mom?" He whipped his head round. His usually babyish blue eyes, now stained red, turned daggers on her. "Why did you agree to this? Did you _really_ want to come back here?"

"Oscar, come on - he was here all the time. We hardly saw him."

"Oh, I see." Oscar sniffed, and turned his face away. "You don't fail twice, do you, Mom?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You either had to let him go, like Andre, or follow him. That's it, isn't it? I didn't think you were that kind of wife, Mom - I thought you had more self-respect than that."

"I - "

"_You_ decided we were going to live in LA, and _he_ chose to follow you… _us_. He came into _my_ life - what right does he have to suddenly turn it upside-down?"

"Oscar," said Dana. "There was a time when you wanted him more than I did."

"I was a little kid then. I wanted a father - it never occurred to me that he'd ruin my life."

"He hasn't ruined your life."

"He has." Oscar looked at her. "You _both_ have. I know he couldn't have forced you - you must have said it was ok with you." There was a long pause, in which he blinked rapidly and took a couple of deep swallows. Then he said, "I want you to know that I'm only staying here, Mom - I'm going home as soon as I can. Four, five years - and then I'm not going to let anyone tell me what to do anymore."

Dana sighed. She wanted to hold him, try to comfort him, but she was sure he wouldn't let her. She said, "Four or five years is a long time to hate your life. I wish you'd try and get to like it."

"How can I? You keep changing it."

"This is it now, Oscar. This is where we belong."

"Then why did you take me to LA in the first place?" Oscar was really yelling now, and the force of his anger drove him to his feet. "You keep changing your mind! Here's your dad, here's another one - this is your home, these are your friends, this is how it's going to be until _you_ want to move on, oh wait, no it's not - you make a life for me and then you _drag_ me out of it just when, when my body's changing and I really need _not_ to hate him and, and I've been at junior high _five minutes_, it wouldn't be too long to wait until I'd be starting high school anyway but for some reason it has to be _right now_ and, and suddenly I have to fit into someplace new _right_ in the middle of the _fucking_ school year…!"

"Oscar, watch your mouth," said Dana.

Oscar, to his mother's astonishment and slight alarm, laughed hysterically. There was a mad look in his eyes as he said, "Weren't you listening to _any_ of that? Your son tells you he's desperately unhappy and all you get is the swear word? Jesus Christ, Dana."

There were no more words after that. Oscar simply turned on his heel and marched out of the room. He had no idea where he was going to go - he would have left the house, if only he had known his way around - but anyway he found his path downstairs blocked.

"Jessica, for God's sake!" He stooped and took some of the weight of the twenty-four-inch flat screen colour television set, which was partially resting on one of the steps, from his eight-year-old sister's arms. "You'll break your back!"

"Well then, _somebody_ had better stop bickering and help me," retorted Jessica. "I've been moving furniture around all day _actually_. Living room's done. I had a bit of trouble getting the piano over the doorstep, but - "

"We weren't bickering."

"Yes you were, I heard you. Why did you call her Dana?"

"That's her name."

"What happened to 'Mom'?"

Oscar, negotiating the stairs backwards while Jessica encouraged him rather too forcefully with the weight of the television, sighed and said, "Same thing that happened to 'Dad'." Peter was Peter now. Oscar, until he could form some kind of relationship with the fifty percent of his genetic structure that was Andre Wallance, had declared himself fatherless.

"You can't pretend _she's_ not really your parent," said Jessica.

"Family isn't about whose blood you have, Jessica. It's about who you love and trust. It's about who listens to you and respects you and cares about your feelings and doesn't stab you in the back. Where do you want this thing?" They were in Jessica's room now, which she quite accepted was _her_ room.

"Obviously," she said, with exaggerated patience, "I want it on the TV stand."

"Silly me." They lumbered over to the stand and positioned the television set. "Are you really ok with this, Jess?"

"I like New York," Jessica said simply.

"Better than LA?"

"I hope so. I didn't have any friends in LA."

"Yeah, well, _I _had friends in LA. Good friends. And now they're just going to forget about me."

"You'll make new friends. You're good at making friends. You'll make about a million new friends on your first day at school - I bet you anything."

"You _must_ be nervous about starting at a new school," said Oscar.

Jessica shrugged. "I don't like school and school doesn't like me - it makes no difference what state I'm in."

"Well I hope you hate it. If _you're_ miserable, Da- …Peter'll move us all back to LA before you can blink."

Jessica scowled. "Don't start that. He doesn't love me more."

"Of course he does. You're his, I'm not - it's as simple as that. I'm not his child, I'm just Mom's baggage, and if I want to be a part of this family I have to put up with his shit."

"You don't really believe that."

Oscar looked at her. He had been staring over her head while he spoke, but when he saw the look in her eyes he realised that he was upsetting her more than she let on. He was very fond of his sister, and he wanted her to be happy there even if he couldn't. He let out a long sigh, no longer sure what he believed. He only knew that if he loved someone as much as Peter professed to love him, he wouldn't put them through anything like this.

x x x

Peter was in the rec room, offloading his woes onto Egon. For a time he had been nursing John Spengler, Egon and Janine's two-year-old son, in his lap; but in spite of the arms clamped tightly around his torso John had eventually managed to free himself and toddle off with his twin sister Eden.

"…and it just really _hurts_," Peter concluded, clenching and unclenching his fingers in his lap. Since John left, he had looked like a smoker who has recently given up and doesn't know what to do with his hands.

"It sounds to me like Oscar's hurting too," remarked Egon.

"Well, yes, but… I agonised over this decision, you know."

"I daresay."

"You're talking about Oscar?" a new voice asked, and Peter turned to see Kylie entering the room with Conchita on her hip. "He must be pretty pissed off about being uprooted."

Peter frowned slightly. "Yes. He is."

"Ah."

The other three younger Ghostbusters followed Kylie into the room, Roland carrying a picture frame about the size of your average paperback novel. He looked eager to report on their progress, but apparently Kylie and Peter weren't done yet.

"You got something to say, Kylie?" asked Peter.

"Well," said Kylie, "I just wonder why you 'agonised' - it seems pretty straightforward to me. You marry the boy's mother, have another kid and then drag them all away from her life and into yours just because you're the one with the penis."

"Kylie!" said Eduardo, faintly horrified, partly because she apparently had no concept of what was and wasn't her business, and partly because Conchita was just starting to pick up words.

Peter scowled. "It's not like that."

"Oh," Kylie said flatly. "Ok."

"It _isn't_. There's more to it than that, like… like Jess. Dana and I didn't want to carry on raising a girl in Los Angeles. I tell you, if she turned out like any of the actresses I've worked with, I'd really worry about her."

"You don't have to explain yourself to me," Kylie said airily.

Egon decided to step in. "How did you get on?" he asked.

"Well," said Roland, "there was definitely no ghost when we went there."

"The creepy little girl's a ghost," Eduardo maintained.

Roland rolled his eyes. "She _isn't_. This girl, Laura, gave us a very vague description of a boy she's been seeing around the house. It wasn't much to go on, but then we found this in the basement," and he held up the picture frame he was holding.

"Oh God, another portrait case," sighed Peter, taking the picture. "Well, this guy's no Vigo, at least. Hmm… does he remind you of Oscar?"

Egon went and looked over his shoulder. "Not really."

"No." Peter looked more closely. "Me neither."

In the frame was a worn, slightly faded portrait of a boy in his early teens. He was about Oscar's age, and equally as handsome, but that was where the similarity ended. He had short brown hair, dark eyes, a round face and an arrogant air that the artist had captured beautifully. Oscar could be pretty cocky, but not like this.

"Laura says that's her ghost," said Roland.

"But kids'll say anything," added Garrett. "She's probably just crazy. Or lying."

"Who _was_ this kid?" asked Peter, still staring at the painting.

"No idea," said Roland. "If you look in the corner, it's dated nineteen eleven, and there's a signature but none of us can make that out."

Peter squinted at the signature. "I think it begins with J…"

"No way," said Garrett. "That's an R." But quite honestly, it could equally have been any one of twenty-four other letters.

"Anyway," said Roland, "I don't really know what to do next. We definitely didn't find a ghost, or any evidence that there ever _was_ a ghost there."

"Can _I_ look into it?" Peter blurted out.

Roland raised his eyebrows. "You're asking _us_? You're the boss."

"Oh yeah," Peter smiled crookedly. "All right - this guy's mine."

"Why?" asked Egon. "If you don't mind my asking."

Why? It was a fair question, and Peter wasn't sure of the answer. He just really _wanted_ to solve this one. He didn't want to think he'd been in any way moved by the boy in the portrait - he didn't really look anything like Oscar. Maybe, Peter thought, he just wanted to be busy, as though in justification of the move. His entire family had relocated to the other side of the country, and his relationship with Oscar was rapidly wilting as a direct result - he had to be committed to the job now.

"I don't know," Peter said evasively.

"Well, all right," said Egon. "Where will you start?"

"With the obvious," said Peter. "I'll talk to the family. I'll try to get a glimpse of this ghost. I'll try to find out who he was. And then I'll try to get him out of the house."

"He isn't _in_ the house," muttered Eduardo.

Peter jumped to his feet. "I'll go now. Do you mind if I keep this?" indicating the portrait, and looking at Roland.

Roland shrugged. "It isn't mine."

"Right, well, I'll see you all later."

"Hey, wait," said Garrett, as Peter charged off. "When do we get to see your family?"

"Ooh." Peter winced. "I'll have to get back to you on that one." And he left.

x x x

Mrs. Wilson was faintly surprised to see another Ghostbuster on her doorstep. Peter hadn't bothered to find out her first name, but he didn't need to know it. Egon insisted on maintaining good form by addressing people by titles and surnames until invited to do otherwise. Even Dana had been Miss Barrett once upon a time, before Peter had managed to get her to fall in love with him. He'd lost her once, of course, but still she'd come back to him a second and even a third time. Peter sometimes wondered if she would have married him if it hadn't been for Oscar's enthusiasm. After he proposed, she had said she needed time to think about it, and didn't give her answer until after the first time Oscar called him "Daddy". Both wonderful moments, but if Oscar could turn the clock back now…

"They said they'd come back and investigate," said Mrs. Wilson, "but I wasn't expecting anyone so soon."

"Yes, well, I'm a senior executive of the company," said Peter, following Mrs. Wilson through to the living room and wondering what the hell had made him say _that_. "The junior team might not have - aww, what a beautiful baby! What's his name?"

"Harry." Mrs. Wilson beamed with pride. "Would you like to hold him? You don't have to," she added hastily. "Only I thought I'd ask because your colleague Mr. Jackson practically turned himself inside out trying to get me to let him hold him."

"I can imagine," said Peter, plucking Harry out of the playpen and holding him over his shoulder. "Hi, Harry. You're a cute baby, aren't you? Yes you are!"

"I have to say," said Mrs. Wilson, "he hasn't had any more inexplicable temper tantrums since your people left. He went a little crazy about half an hour ago, but it turned out his lunch had gone right through him."

Peter's nose was next to Harry's ear, and he was breathing in that familiar baby smell. It was a smell people tended either to love or hate. Peter hadn't really minded it when he'd first smelt it on Oscar - the whole "he stinks" thing had only been his childish way of saying unkind things about the baby's father - and since then he had come to love it.

"And," Mrs. Wilson went on, "I've been feeling ok too. I didn't see anything - just felt a bit, you know, weird. But that might just be because it's an old house."

"What about your daughter?" asked Peter. "I'm told she's been seeing him."

"She hasn't mentioned seeing him again."

"Can we go ask her about it?"

"Sure."

Laura was doodling in a colouring book at the kitchen table. Peter, having come straight from Hollywood, wondered if she was drawing members of her family in compromising positions with the ghost she'd been seeing. But when he looked over her shoulder, he saw that she was colouring in a picture of a saucer-eyed cat with a ball of wool.

"Honey," said Mrs. Wilson. "Have you seen that boy again, since those people left?"

"No," said Laura.

That was that, then. Peter, still carrying Harry, allowed Mrs. Wilson to lead him to the front door.

"I wonder," he said, "about that portrait you let the junior team take away with them."

"What about it?"

"Maybe the ghost went with it. We've seen cases like that before."

"Oh, like in your movie," said Mrs. Wilson.

"Exactly," said Peter.

"Where's the picture now?"

"It's in my car. I'll look into it."

"Great." Mrs. Wilson smiled. "Thanks."

"Here." Peter would have liked to take Harry home with him, but it probably wouldn't have been such a good idea, so he handed him back to his mother. "I'll let you know if I find anything out. Bye now."

"Bye."

Peter smiled as, while he pulled the car into gear, Mrs. Wilson applauded Harry's attempt to wave goodbye.

x x x

"Hey," said Peter to Dana, when he arrived home in the early evening. "You know about art, right?"

"Not really," said Dana. She was making a start on dinner. "I don't know _how_ I got that job at the museum."

"I do. You got it by being attractive to the boss."

"Oh, I don't know - I think it was more that he felt sorry for me. At the interview, when he asked me why I wanted the job, I said, 'Because I'm in the middle of a divorce and I have a baby and he has to eat'."

"Well," said Peter, "_I_ wouldn't give you a job. I'd worry that you were unreliable."

Dana raised her eyebrows. "You mean you don't think it's acceptable for a single mother to put her child before her job?"

"Let's not have that argument now," said Peter. "Look - can you make out that signature in the corner there?"

Dana looked down, and found that there was a framed portrait in her hands. "Handsome kid," she remarked.

"Yeah, well - can you make out even a _little_ part of it?"

"Well, no, it's just a scribble. It's no one famous enough for me to recognise their signature. I may have seen it at the art museum, but I saw a lot of illegible scrawls there. You know what you should do if you really want to know - you should take it to Janozs at the museum."

Peter wrinkled his nose. "Does he still work there?"

"Of course he still works there - there are people who would kill for his job."

"So there's no hard feelings, then? Between you and him?"

"No," said Dana. "He was bewitched when he kidnapped Oscar and took him to Vigo, and before that he gave me a job when someone like _you_ wouldn't have."

"He tried to come onto you."

"I was single - he was entitled to try. But he never overstepped any boundaries."

"He's short, isn't he?" remarked Peter. "Why do you attract short guys?"

"You're not _that_ short, honey."

"I was thinking more of Louis Tully. Oh, hey sport," as Jessica walked in.

"Hi, Dad." She hugged him. "What's with the picture?"

"It's work."

"Oh."

"How have you been getting on today?"

"I had to do _all this _myself," said Jessica, spreading her arms in a gesture encompassing the entire house. "Mom and Oscar have been arguing all day."

"Oh," said Peter. "_You_ brought the piano in, did you?"

"Yes. Well, Jim may have helped a little." Jim was from the removals company.

He stroked her hair. God, but it was a mess. "Jessie, would you like to go and see everybody at the firehouse tomorrow?"

Jessica shrugged. "All right."

"Great. Do me a favour - go ask Oscar if he wants to come too."

"All right."

"Thanks, sweetie." Peter stooped and kissed her on the cheek before letting her trot off. Then he turned to Dana and said, with an empathic smile, "Does he hate you too?"

"Well, why not? I'm as much to blame as you are." She sighed deeply. "He's so determined not to be happy here."

Dana was still stinging from Oscar's remark about not wanting to fail in her second marriage. It was true to the extent that she wanted to stay married to Peter, but notions of success and failure had nothing to do with it. They had spent long periods of time apart before, when she and Oscar had moved to LA and Peter stayed in New York, and that had almost finished them. She had gone in order to further her career, which hadn't really worked in the long run. As of next week she was back with the orchestra she'd been playing in when she first met Peter. And that, she knew, was the right decision. Family had to come first now.

Jessica reappeared and said, "He says he'll come with us."

"Oh, good," said Peter, smiling.

"He also says he's not going to have any dinner."

The smile vanished. "Oh, God - he has to _eat_."

"That's what I said."

"And what did he say?"

"He said he didn't see why he should accept food from somebody who doesn't give a flying fu-" - she cut a glance at Dana - "…who doesn't care about his wellbeing."

"I _do_ care about his wellbeing!" Dana expostulated.

"He says - "

"This is getting ridiculous." She marched out of the room and up the stairs.

"Jess, has he been out of his room all day?" asked Peter.

"He hasn't been out of _that_ room," said Jessica. "But, as you know, it isn't his."

Peter sighed. "Do _you_ like it here?"

"I like it fine."

"Good. I'm beginning to wonder if we made the right decision."

"He'll be all right," said Jessica. "Once he settles down."

Peter smiled at her, and pulled her into a hug. "You know exactly how to shut me up, don't you?" he said.

"If you and Mom had split up," said Jessica, "and you came here and Mom stayed in LA, I would have come with you."

Peter was so touched by this, he almost wanted to cry. "Would you, honey?"

"Yes."

"I never would have let that happen."

"So if Mom really wanted to stay in LA, and she said she wasn't moving to New York no matter what, and if you wanted to keep her you had to quit ghostbusting and stop coming here, would you have done it?"

"Of course."

"Oh," said Jessica, and he could feel her wrinkling her nose against his chest. "Well, don't tell Oscar that. He'd _never_ forgive you if he knew."

x x x

Ray Stantz made a special effort to go to the firehouse when he learnt that Peter's family was going to be there for a time. Winston Zeddemore would undoubtedly have done the same thing, given the choice, but he wasn't given the choice. Dana called him some twelve hours in advance and demanded that he bring his daughter Charlene. Their two daughters had met before, of course, but with Jessica always having to go back to LA after only a few days they hadn't really had many chances to bond. Charlene was only about four months older than Jessica, and so ticked pretty much the only box on Dana's criteria for potential friends. Jessica, on the other hand, was not so sure.

"Honey," said Dana, as they arrived. "Try to be nice to Charlene."

"You can't force me to like her," said Jessica.

"You've met her lots of times before. You liked her all right then, didn't you?"

Jessica shrugged. "I didn't hate her. But she's a _girl_."

The first port of call was, as ever, Janine. Dana later realised that she probably laid it on a bit thick when trying to make up for her children's lack of enthusiasm in greeting her. Jessica looked bored; Oscar just looked miserable.

"Hi, Janine!" Dana went all the way round to the other side of the desk to hug her. "How are you?"

"I'm good," said Janine. "What about you? Settling in all right?"

Oscar answered that one: "No."

"Well," said Janine, "of course it'll take some getting used to."

"I'm getting used to nothing," Oscar said acidly. "I _hate_ New York."

Janine blinked. She didn't know what to say. Then Peter's cell phone interrupted the awkward silence, and he whipped it out of his pocket.

"Ooh, that might be Janozs," he said excitedly, glancing at the caller display, and wandered a few yards away as he flipped the phone open and put it to his ear. "Hello?"

Janine raised her eyebrows at Dana. "Janozs _Poha_?"

"He's gotten interested in a painting," said Dana.

"Oh," said Janine. "That."

"Janine," said Oscar.

She looked at him. He was trying to smile, but it wasn't really working.

"Sorry about that."

"Don't worry about it, sweetie."

This was one of the hardest places to be thirteen - Oscar had already discovered that last year. Everyone else was either grown up or a child. Jessica was doing her level best to get along with Charlene Zeddemore. Peter had more than enough friends there. Dana was having a slightly embarrassing conversation with Kylie about the woes of pregnancy and birth. Oscar didn't feel that he could join in with any of that. He was, however, very taken with Conchita. She was growing up fast, and had acquired several new talents since last he saw her. She was crawling, for example, and with everyone else so occupied it fell upon Oscar to make sure she didn't wander off and fall downstairs. She could also stand for about half a minute before toppling over sideways. The fall caught Oscar by surprise the first time, and he only just managed to catch her in time. She fell against his chest and grabbed onto the sleeves of his t-shirt, and seemed to find it hilarious.

"When I had Oscar," Dana was saying, when Conchita had stopped laughing and Oscar was once again able to hear every word, "I had to have fifteen stitches in spite of the episiotomy."

"No one offered _me_ an episiotomy," said Kylie. "They damn well should have, though - she ripped right through me."

Oscar winced. "Oh," he said, as Conchita pulled herself up on his bent knees; "we're going to do that again, are we?"

"I wouldn't have wanted one, though," said Kylie. "It sounds really, _really_ nasty."

"Well," said Dana, "if they make the incision while you're having a contraction, it pales in comparison. I was a bit worried Jess would open the scar on her way out, but there were no problems at all with her."

"I'm sorry, Mom," Oscar said ironically, as he caught Conchita for the second time.

"You were a big baby," said Dana. "You did _not_ want to come out. And it didn't really help, Andre being there," she said to Kylie. "He was useless."

"Did you know your marriage was doomed before or after I was conceived?" asked Oscar.

Dana scowled slightly. "After."

"Why _did_ you marry him?"

"Oscar, we've been over and over this."

"Do you blame me for it going wrong? Is that why you don't care if you ruin my life?"

"Oscar!"

Conchita said something that sounded like, "Nwabo!" Oscar blinked.

"That's Spanish," Kylie said proudly. "_De neuvo_ means again, I'm told. Eduardo always repeats it back to her correctly," she added, looking significantly at Oscar.

"_De neuvo_!" Oscar said enthusiastically.

"Isn't that fantastic?" said Dana. "Her growing up bilingual? It's amazing how they pick things up at that age. Oscar could get a tune out of the piano before he was stringing three words together - I used to play him a lot of music."

"But not talk to me," said Oscar.

Dana scowled again, more deeply this time. "I _did_ talk to you. In spite of what you may think, Oscar, I love you and I - "

Peter appeared in the doorway, a backpack slung over one shoulder, and said, "I'm off to the art museum now."

"Ok, honey," said Dana. "Say hi to Janozs for me."

"Bye, Oscar." He didn't expect a response, and he didn't get one. "See ya, Kylie."

"Bye."

"You love me and you what?" asked Oscar, when Peter had gone.

"Never mind." Dana exhaled heavily, and returned her attention to Kylie. "Jessica had whole sentences by the time she was a year old…"

_If it's a competition_, thought Oscar, _I think this kid's already won with the second language_.

He could barely remember a time when Jessica didn't talk. She'd always had something to say, and she had always been able to express herself even before she had any words. Oscar wasn't so good with words. He knew music, and that was it. That was how he expressed himself. He'd even spent the last few nights in LA composing, because he had no more words in him. He'd tried talking, and no one had listened. He was surprised he had any words at all before he could get a tune out of the piano.

"Can you dance, Chita?" asked Oscar, holding onto her hands the next time she stood up. "Like this?" He bounced rhythmically from side to side, and started to sing, "_Cuttin' up baby, move in time; we'll go dancin' tomorrow night…_ That's it!" as she started to copy his movements, with considerably less precision and accuracy than Oscar displayed.

Eduardo wandered in at that point, and watched with interest.

"Clever girl!" said Oscar, and caught her as she fell forward again, laughing hysterically.

"He taught Jess to dance when she was about that age," said Dana.

"Dance!" Oscar said to Conchita. It was an important word - he felt she ought to know it.

"_Baile_!" added Eduardo.

"I have to go to the bathroom," said Dana, and went.

Conchita danced, in the loosest sense of the word, to Oscar's rendition of the first couple of lines of "Footloose", and then got a bit grizzly and started to crawl towards her parents.

"She wants a boob," said Kylie, lifting Conchita onto her lap.

"Go on, Ky - 'just like her dad'," prompted Eduardo.

Kylie started rearranging her breasts. "I think that joke's wearing a little thin now, babe - don't you? I'm sorry, Oscar - you can leave if you want to."

"Don't worry about it," said Oscar. He stood up, only because he'd been kneeling for twenty minutes and his joints, young as they were, were beginning to stiffen up. "My mother breast-fed one baby in front of me, my aunt by marriage two and my step-mom three - it _really_ doesn't bother me."

"Kevin can't stand it," said Kylie.

"Speaking of which," said Eduardo, "Kev says you only have to ask if you want him to show you what thirteen-year-old New Yorkers do for fun."

"That's nice of him," said Oscar. "I may take him up on that, seeing as how I don't have any friends here."

Kylie looked up from the baby attached to her nipple and offered an encouraging smile. "You'll soon make friends," she said.

"That's what everyone says."

"Well then there's probably some truth in it. Have a little faith in yourself."

"Look," said Oscar, blushing slightly. He was cute when he blushed, Kylie noticed. "I'm sorry about making all those little digs at Mom. I'll have to get out of the habit of doing it in front of people."

"You should go Goth if you want to annoy her," said Kylie. "She'd hate that."

"I already went Goth for a while last year - I don't think I'll be trying it again. I don't want to play Goth music."

"Why? What's wrong with Goth music?"

"Nothing. It just isn't me. Mind you, neither is New York." Oscar looked over at the window. "God, look at it! It's ugly, it's dirty, it's absolutely freezing… How could they have wanted to leave a beautiful place like LA for _this_?"

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Dana returned. Oscar looked in her direction for a few moments, though his eyes seemed to cut right through her, and then suddenly had to turn his head away and walk out of the room.

"What's the matter with him?" asked Dana.

Kylie smiled weakly and said, "Breast-feeding."

x x x

"Hello again, Dr. Renkman." Janozs Poha proffered a handshake, which Peter graciously accepted. "And how are you this morning?"

"All right," said Peter. "Yourself?"

"Not bad at all, thank you for asking. And how is Dana?"

"Good."

"And the baby?"

Peter cocked an eyebrow. "The baby will be turning fourteen very soon."

"Oh my goodness me - has it really been that long? Little Oscar nearly fourteen! And I heard you and Dana had another?"

"Jessica. She's eight. Look, Janozs - can we maybe move this along?"

"Of course, of course, we are both very busy people," Janozs gibbered in his generic, indeterminable European accent. "Please step into my office."

Peter hadn't actually seen Janozs's office before, and vaguely wondered if he'd had one at the time Dana was working at the museum and all the subsequent shit had happened. He couldn't help thinking about Vigo, and how things would have been if he'd had his way. Oscar would be dead, and that asshole would be walking around inside his healthy young body, making some kind of attempt to take over the world - he might even have succeeded already. Dana would be broken, living as Janozs's trophy wife, too far gone even to care. Peter himself would be dead, probably. So would Egon, Ray and Winston. There would be no next generation. No Jessica. The Ghostbusters had prevented a lot of horrible dystopian futures from being realised, but that one had to be the worst.

"Well then, Dr. Renkman," once they were seated on opposite sides of a big, important desk. "You have a painting you wish me to take a look at?"

Peter dug about in his backpack until his fingers closed around the framed portrait, which he then handed to Janozs.

"What is it you want to know?" asked Janozs.

"Anything you can tell me. I'm interested in the subject, but I don't realistically expect you to know about him. I hoped you might be able to decipher the signature."

Janozs nodded. He had already noticed the signature, and was looking at it intently. "It is a very familiar signature, Dr. Renkman. Arthur Woodcock."

Peter snorted with laughter at the unfortunate name, and then said, "Sorry."

"But we cannot be sure it is genuine. The signature _looks_ authentic enough, but someone of course may have copied it."

"Why would you assume that?"

"I assume nothing," said Janozs. "What makes me wonder is that Woodcock had a reputation. As far as anyone is aware, only two portraits were ever painted by him in his entire life, and I have them both here in this museum. Incidentally," he said, looking up from the picture, "if I can prove this _is_ an authentic Woodcock…"

Peter just about managed to restrain himself.

"…I would be prepared to pay to take it off your hands."

"It isn't mine," said Peter. "I'll put you in touch with the people who own it after I'm done with it."

"I would be grateful if you would do that for me, thank you."

"Tell me about this reputation."

"Well," said Janozs, sounding very much as if he planned to draw the story out. "You don't have to be an expert to see that this piece has artistic merit."

"You certainly get a vibe," said Peter. "That's one cocky kid. I thought maybe that was because it was haunted."

Janozs smiled politely. "That may be. I shall have to be careful with it - you know my history with possessed portraits. Speaking of which, I must apologise again for - "

"Janozs, you apologised at the time. I know it wasn't your fault - it's all right."

"The boy is really all right?"

_No, but that's nothing to do with what happened when he was a baby. _"He's fine. Please go on with what you were saying."

"Well," Janozs said again, "Woodcock clearly was a promising young artist. But he never came to anything. As I said, he is known to have painted two portraits. The first was of his own sister - a Miss Caroline Woodcock. The day after the portrait was finished, she disappeared. The two events were considered coincidence only, and when Woodcock showed the portrait to a local millionaire he was commissioned to paint this man's daughter - Eliza Winterson."

"Let me guess," said Peter. "She disappeared as well."

"Certainly she did. Twice cannot be coincidence - yes?"

"It can."

"It can indeed, but no one wanted to take that chance. No work was ever commissioned from Woodcock again. Whether he painted portraits in his own time, to satisfy his own artistic urges, I do not know."

"I think," said Peter, looking over the desk at the frame in Janozs's hands, "he probably did. What happened to him after that?"

"Within a few weeks he had vanished."

"Intriguing."

"Indeed."

"You say you have the two portraits in this museum. May I see them?"

Janozs instantly looked suspicious. "You will not photograph them this time?"

"Why would I want to do that? There's postcards available in the gift shop, right?"

Janozs, smiling weakly, rose to his feet. "This way, Dr. Renkman."

Woodcock's two pieces hung side-by-side in a deserted corner of the museum. Both were bigger than the portrait of the teenage boy, now back inside Peter's bag - about fifteen square inches, Peter estimated. The canvas on the left showed a dark-haired young woman with a look of sheer rebellion in her eyes; on the right, an apple-cheeked young girl, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old, with sweet blond hair.

"I like this one better," said Peter, pointing at the dark-haired woman. "He really nailed that look in her eyes - you can tell exactly who she was. Like with the boy."

"That is Caroline, his sister," said Janozs. "Miss Winterson's portrait is well painted, but I think not as good. It is only something bland, for the girl's father to hang on his wall."

"I can believe these were painted by the same artist who did the boy. But I'm no expert."

"I can believe it too. What will you do now?"

"May I take some readings?"

Janozs looked uncertain for a moment, but then shrugged and said, "Very well. May I ask, Dr. Renkman - why are these of interest to you?"

"The portrait of the boy was found in a house in which the little girl complained of seeing a ghost. I thought the portrait was suspicious, and your story about Woodcock confirms it for me. What else do you know about him?"

"There is a chapter about him in the guide book."

"I'll buy one on my way out." Peter was studying his PKE meter with some disappointment. "The boy didn't give off a reading either."

"Maybe there is nothing suspicious."

"How can there not be?" He squinted at the dates in the corner of each painting. "So this Caroline was painted in the same year as the boy, and Eliza Whatshername the following year. Assuming these dates are all correct."

"He would have dated the two official portraits correctly."

"When did he disappear?"

"He was last seen in New York in nineteen fifteen."

"So he had three years in which to cause trouble after the blond chick disappeared. But the boy was painted before that. Well, _someone_ must know who he was."

"I cannot help you there," said Janozs.

"You've been a big help already," said Peter. "Thank you."

_To be continued…_

**Disclaimer: **"Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" © G. Michael, 1984


	2. Chapter 2

_Ghostbusters: _**Don't Try to Change Me**

Part 2

Dana was thinking about sex. A reasonable thing to think about when one is in bed kissing one's husband of nigh on ten years, except that she wasn't thinking about it in a good way. What she was thinking was that she really wasn't in the mood. Sex, she reflected, had actually been easier when they weren't together that much. Whenever Peter came home from New York, they'd look forward to falling into bed and making love. A couple of times he'd arrived home while she was at work and the kids were at school, at which time he'd be tired and crawl into bed, only to be woken a few hours later by Dana's hands and mouth on him. Those times, she thought, were probably the best.

But now. Well. She wasn't feeling it, and she knew that he wasn't either. They both pulled back at the same time, and looked at each other for several log moments, like two stags sizing each other up. And then finally Peter said, "Do we have a problem here?"

"No!" Dana said quickly. "_God_ no. This isn't what happens when you stop wanting to have sex, believe me."

"_Did you know your marriage was doomed before or after I was conceived?"_

"_After."_

Was that true? Dana could pinpoint the exact moment in which half of Oscar had entered her body, because in that moment Mrs. Next Door had switched off the TV after watching a rerun of _Starsky and Hutch_. Dana remembered that neither she nor Andre had particularly wanted to do… that. They'd just felt that they ought to.

Jessica's conception, whichever of the forty-odd times that month it had been, was wonderful. She had been conceived in passion and, more importantly, love. Oscar was conceived in sheer desperation. And now what? Jessica was happier, freer, more secure, _stronger_ than her brother had ever been. The nature of both their conceptions probably had nothing to do with the people they were now, but Dana couldn't help noticing it.

"It's just because we're both worried about Oscar," she said.

Peter nodded. "I thought so."

"I hate seeing him like this, Peter - I _really_ hate it."

"I know, honey."

"I mean, he's always been a bit… I don't know. He feels things very deeply. Everything really _affects_ him. Kylie and I were talking about giving birth today - I told her about when I had Oscar. It was a difficult labour, and while my marriage was on the rocks he never stopped crying, and then there was the whole incident with the mood slime and Vigo and the tub trying to eat him, and you remember what he was like as a little boy - he was very needy, always wanting attention. He's always seemed to find life so difficult - how could we have thought he'd cope with being uprooted?"

"Well," said Peter, "he's such a social chameleon - I thought he'd fit in anywhere. I still think he can. He made friends with that nephew of Eduardo's straightaway, didn't he? When we brought him here before, he seemed to fit as well as he ever did in LA."

Dana sighed. "I worry about him. Not just now - I always have. I don't worry about Jess, though." She looked at him. "Is that terrible?"

"No," said Peter. "Jess is fine. Jess will always be fine."

"I feel bad about the start he got in life."

"Because Andre left? That's not your fault."

"I shouldn't have let him."

"Dana, you've told me how it was. You and Oscar were both happier after he went."

Dana nodded. "You're right." She was forgetting how bad things had been. Sigourney Weaver had really understated it when she said, _"We had some problems."_

x x x

Dana, Peter and Jessica let out a collective gasp as Oscar walked into the kitchen on Saturday morning. He stopped walking, and turned his gaze on them sharply.

"What?"

"Well," said Jessica, "if you don't know I think you'd rather I didn't tell you."

"Oh," said Oscar. "That."

He had, between then and the night before, cut off his ponytail. Dana refused to believe her own eyes. Jessica put it down to Oscar's obsession with his appearance - he must just have felt like a change. Peter could only imagine him hacking through the ponytail with a kitchen knife, with tears in his eyes, in a mad fury brought on by the trauma of the past few weeks. This image was, of course, followed immediately by guilt. Fortunately it wasn't too obvious that Oscar had done the job himself. It didn't look professional, but Oscar had been careful - his hair just looked like that of an adolescent boy who doesn't care. And that was what was so shocking. Oscar _did _care about his looks.

"I'm going to get it cleaned up this afternoon," he said, as though reading their minds, though he addressed only Jessica.

"Why did you _do_ it?" she asked, wide-eyed with incredulity.

"Well," said Oscar, "because I don't know what's socially acceptable around here, I start school on Monday and I don't want to be the guy with the ponytail."

"Won't you miss it?"

"Well it's not like I cut off my hand. It'll grow back."

"Oh," said Jessica. "You _are_ going to grow it back, then."

Oscar shrugged. "Probably."

"And you'll have your posse by then, and they'll like you regardless of your hairdo."

"Let's hope so." He looked at Dana then, noticing something in her gaze. "What's the matter with _you_?"

"Oh, Oscar…"

"What?"

"You look just like Andre."

She seemed to have to squeeze the words out, as though something was holding them back. Peter, sure that the decision to cut his hair had been harder than Oscar was letting on, watched carefully for the reaction. There was, perhaps, a slight tremor in his right eye. Then his expression relaxed; he breathed in and said simply, "Well, he _is_ my father."

That hurt. Peter didn't know whether it showed, but it really hit a nerve. Oscar looked at him, just briefly, and then turned round and started throwing together some breakfast. To upset Peter was, of course, the intention. Perhaps, Peter thought, the sacrifice of the ponytail was another ploy designed to make him feel guilty. Oscar never would have done that if they were still in LA - hell, he had given starting at his new school as the reason. Peter suppressed a sigh of frustration. He was going to be severely punished, day after day, for as long as Oscar wanted him to suffer.

But in the meantime…

"I have to go out," he said. He'd already read the guidebook from the art museum, and thought he had a lead. "I need to work on this portrait thing, and I want to get in touch with a descendent of the artist."

x x x

Eleanor Woodcock had kindly given permission for her name to be printed in the art museum's guidebook because she was asked by a weird little man with a European accent, she couldn't understand a word he was saying and she hoped that saying yes would shut him up. She felt somewhat violated after she learned what she had agreed to - but fortunately she didn't hear very much more about it. Until a phone call from a Doctor Peter Venkman interrupted her Sunday afternoon six years later.

"I know that name," she said, when he announced himself over the phone. "Oh, no, wait, I know - you're a Ghostbuster."

"Yes."

"What do you want?"

"I want to talk to you about this Arthur Woodcock person."

"Right, right," said Eleanor. Of course that was what he wanted - he had found her through the museum guidebook. "Where did you get my number?"

"I called in a few favours."

"You sound like a criminal."

"I'm sorry, I get that from my father," said Peter. "But anyway, Miss Woodcock, can you and I please meet up and discuss your… what was he?"

"Great-uncle. His sister was my father's mother."

"But she wasn't married?"

He must have figured that out from her surname. Eleanor wondered why people didn't spot it more often - they just never seemed to realise. She said, "No, she wasn't married."

"That was a big deal in the nineteen tens, wasn't it? Maybe it has something to do with… whatever happened."

"I don't really know very much about that," said Eleanor. "But you don't want to do this over the phone, do you? I'll come over to your firehouse place next week. How's Thursday?"

"Thursday's…" He paused, and Eleanor guessed from his tone that he'd been hoping to make an appointment a little sooner. But he surely had to realise she was doing him a favour by meeting him at all, and said, "That's great. Do you know your way?"

"I'll find it. See you Thursday."

x x x

Peter drove the kids to school on Monday. Jessica, when she jumped out of the car with a carefree "Bye, Dad", seemed to register no particular emotion - she just didn't care. She didn't like school, and as far as she was concerned she might as well not like it in New York as in Los Angeles.

Oscar was different. He said nothing and, though he refused to let it show in his expression or his body language, Peter could tell he was absolutely terrified. When they pulled up outside the school Oscar just gazed, frozen, out of the car window, up at the looming building - bigger to him in his fear, probably, than it was to most.

"Oscar," said Peter.

Oscar turned his head to look at him, and the expression on his face was just heartbreaking. His eyes registered terror at the prospect of walking in there, anger, even hatred for having to do it, and the resignation of one whose spirit has been utterly crushed. Slouching in the seat, gazing up at Peter like that, he looked about five years old. All Peter wanted to do was hug him, but he restrained himself, knowing that hugging Oscar in front of his new set of peers would destroy whatever relationship they had left.

"It'll be all right," said Peter.

Still Oscar said nothing. He climbed out of the car, slung his backpack onto his shoulder and marched through the school gates with his head held high. He clearly wasn't feeling at all confident, but he hid it well. That was why he was good at making friends - he had a lot of charisma, and didn't find it at all difficult to get people to like him. Oscar was terrified of not being accepted, but Peter knew he _would_ be accepted. He didn't worry about whether or not he would make friends - that was Jessica's problem. She was just too honest. She wore her heart on her sleeve and if people didn't like what they saw, to hell with them. Oscar wasn't like that. He showed strangers what he guessed they wanted to see, and held everything else back until he thought it was safe to let it out.

It was the school work, Peter knew, that was more likely present difficulty for Oscar. That was something Jessica would have no problems with - she had an extraordinary talent for knowing what teachers wanted and being able to give it to them whilst doing the minimum amount of work. Peter himself hadn't been like that - he could do well academically only when he applied himself. Again, Oscar was different. He wasn't stupid, but he had to work just to keep up. The only exception was music. Oscar had never come away from any kind of music assessment with less than an A grade. Dana had already arranged some extra one-to-one music tuition for him on Friday lunchtimes, and Peter hoped fervently that this would help Oscar to find his feet in the new school.

He next drove to the firehouse. He'd tried doing some research, but couldn't find out anything about Arthur Woodcock that Janozs Poha hadn't told him or that wasn't printed in the museum's goddamn guidebook. Dana had spent a lot of time with that book lately - apparently she never got around to reading the guidebook when she was working there.

Peter had got the junior team onto the task as well, and unsurprisingly it was Roland who came up with the goods. Peter found him and Janine looking over an old newspaper at the reception desk. As he approached, Roland handed him a receipt and said, "I hope this is coming out of my expenses."

"Of course," said Peter.

"I got it from the historic newspaper society - it's all about Arthur Woodcock's disappearance. It doesn't tell you very much, though."

"Oh, great, thanks," said Peter, taking the paper. "It's got to be better than nothing. Honestly though, this is so frustrating - it's much easier just to put ghosts in the containment unit than to try and help them."

"How _is_ this going to help the ghost?" asked Janine.

"I don't know. I'm sort of hoping to avenge his death so he can cross over to the other side or something."

"You watch too many movies."

"It's a nice idea," said Roland. "I think it's sweet that you care so much about this boy because his portrait reminded you of Oscar."

"Yeah, well." Peter, running his eye over the worn print on the newspaper, wrinkled his nose. "I don't know _why_ it reminded me - the more I look at it, the more I think he doesn't look anything _like_ Oscar."

"He's starting school today, isn't he?" How like Roland to remember something like that. "Did he seem nervous?"

"Nervous? He looked like he wanted to die, and take me with him. I tell you, I really worry about him. You know what?" He looked at Janine. "He's going through some changes anyway, and now he's had this whole personality transplant - it sort of reminds me of what happened to you, with the Lotsabucks."

Janine scowled. "That's hardly the same."

"I know, but - "

"Oscar isn't under the influence of a demon - he's just unhappy."

"I didn't say it _was_ what happened to you," retorted Peter. "I just said it _reminds_ me of what happened to you."

"You know," said Janine, "when _you_ aren't around he's as sweet as he ever was."

"Well, yeah, but it's the way he looks as well. I mean, he's grown a lot lately and his voice is changing and he cut his hair - "

"He _cut his hair_?" Janine couldn't have looked more surprised if she'd been told Oscar _had_ cut off is hand.

"Yeah, I know, it's insane. The really weird thing is that he's always looked exactly like Dana, but as soon as he hacks off his ponytail he looks like Andre."

The members of Dana's orchestra would be interested to see that, Peter thought. Dana was reclaiming her position among them at that very moment, and they would be bound to ask after Oscar. They had never really seemed interested in Jessica - the most any of them could manage following the birth announcement were mawkish cards decorated with pink rabbits and scant information they already knew: _"It's A Girl!" _But they were all interested in Oscar, because Oscar was what happened when two of their number procreated.

"Well," said Peter, "I'm grateful to you for finding this for me, Roland, but at first glance it doesn't seem to be _very_ illuminating on its own. It mentions his sister disappearing earlier in the same year - no mention of this son she's supposed to have had, though. But maybe Eleanor will be able to pick up on something in here."

"Is she your mistress?" Janine deadpanned.

"No, she's a descendant of Arthur Woodcock. She's coming here on Thursday."

"That's a long wait."

"Yes."

"What will you do in the meantime?"

"Well." Peter glanced down at the phone. "I suppose the first thing I should do is call Mrs. Wilson and find out if she's had any more trouble from her ghost."

x x x

Mrs. Wilson hadn't had any more trouble from her ghost. This had a surprising effect on Peter - he felt winded, like he had been smacked in the chest.

"Y'know," said Garrett, when he and the rest of the junior team had gone over every detail of their visit to the Wilson house for the third time that day, which happened to be the much anticipated Thursday; "that kid was probably just bored and made the whole thing up."

"Then why did the baby cry?" demanded Peter.

"Babies cry," Kylie said soothingly. She was nursing her own baby on her lap.

"But his mom says he has a good temperament."

"Well," said Kylie, "so does Chita, but she still cries sometimes."

"If someone advised you to drop it now," said Roland, "how mad would you be at that person?"

Peter shook his head. He had the portrait of the boy in his hands, and was staring at it. "I wouldn't be mad at all. I know this must seem crazy to you. It's just… I _know_ something terrible happened to the kid in this picture, and I really, really, _really_ want to help him."

"Well," said Roland, "whatever happened, it was a long time ago."

"It's because you feel guilty about Oscar, isn't it?" Eduardo said bluntly.

Peter stopped looking at the picture. "Oh God yes, I don't pretend it isn't."

"Dr. Venkman." Janine popped her head around the doorway. "Your… descendent… person. She's here."

Eleanor Woodcock turned out to be young, probably in her mid-twenties, and strikingly pretty. Peter wasn't a bit surprised. Her grandmother had been very beautiful as well, according to her portrait.

"Hello, Miss Woodcock," said Peter, extending his hand with a warm smile as he entered the reception area. "Dr. Peter Venkman. Can I get you anything?"

"No thanks," said Eleanor. "Can we maybe hurry this along? Not to be rude or anything, but you _did_ do something that sounds pretty fishy in order to get my number and then just call me out of the blue."

"I'm sorry," said Peter. "Really sorry." He didn't know what else to say.

Janine said, "He's got a bee in his bonnet about some portrait this Arthur Woodcock painted - it's very good of you to indulge him."

"You'd do better to go to the museum," said Eleanor.

"I already did," said Peter. "Look… come and sit down." He took her over to the nearest vacant desk, and they both sat. "It's not either of the portraits in the museum."

"He never painted any others."

"He did," said Peter. "Probably," and he handed her the portrait. Only then did it occur to him that it might be a bit weird, his carrying it around all the time like that.

"I never knew about this," said Eleanor, looking interested at last. "It's him."

"Who?"

"Arthur."

Peter blinked. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. I got a family photo with him in it at home. I mean, it's really old and black-and-white, but this is definitely him. He looks just the same."

"So he's about this age?" asked Peter. "In the photo?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"When was it taken? Do you know?"

"It's dated nineteen oh-four."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "nineteen oh-_four_? Right, well, let's say he was fifteen in nineteen-oh-four… he disappeared when he was, er, about twenty-six… and he claims to have painted his teenage self four years prior to that. Well _that's_ weird. Why would he do that?"

"He was crazy."

"Was he really?"

"Not officially, but the family stories say he was a pretty nutty kind of guy."

Peter sighed. Ok, so he knew more now, but this wasn't helping at all. Without much hope, he asked, "I don't suppose you have any idea how he and his sister and that rich chick disappeared?"

"Sorry," said Eleanor. "Not a clue."

Silence.

"Is there anything else, Dr. Venkman?"

"Well, I don't have any more questions. Is there anything else you can tell me?"

Eleanor shook her head. "I don't think so." Then she seemed to catch something in his face, and her tone softened as she said, "I'll call you if I think of anything."

"Thank you," said Peter, rising to his feet, and she immediately copied the action. "You've been… very helpful."

x x x

Friday, at last. The week was almost over, and nothing too terrible had happened. Oscar walked into the music room at lunchtime and breathed in the familiar, comforting smell of brass and wood. There was a man sitting at the piano, clearly in his thirties but wearing the jeans and hairstyle of an eighteen year old. This, presumably, was his new music teacher. The man stood up when he saw Oscar, and with a warm smile he extended his right hand. Oscar, faintly surprised, shook it.

"Oscar Venkman, right?"

Oscar blinked. "Who told you my name was Venkman?"

"Um." The man peered over his shoulder, glancing at a pile of paper on top of the piano. A list of his students, presumably. "Your mother. Isn't that correct?"

"It's Wallance."

"Oh, right. So Dr. Venkman is…?"

"My stepfather."

"Oh, I see." The music teacher's expression cleared. "Well, I'm Alan Walton, your teacher. Call me Alan."

Oscar blinked again. "Seriously?"

"Absolutely."

"Ok, well… shall we get started?"

"Sure." Alan nodded to a corner of the room, where a pile of guitar cases sat, and said, "One of those is yours?"

"Yes," said Oscar, and went to retrieve his guitar. He had been told by some teacher or other just to dump it there when he first arrived that morning - students weren't expected to carry their musical instruments around school with them.

"How long have you been playing?"

"Um." Oscar clicked open the case and pulled out his guitar. "About seven-and-a-half years."

"I read all your last music teacher's reports. She seems to have a very high opinion of you. Listen - do you think you could maybe get that in tune with the piano?"

Oscar went over the piano and tested a few keys. "She was a good teacher," he said, plucking the E-string with his thumb as he pulled it into tune. "I got on well with her."

"I'm sure you'll get on fine with me too."

"I'm sure I will."

Oscar moved onto the next string, made a minor adjustment and then tested the next. As he worked through the six strings, Alan continued to make small talk. "It can't be easy, starting with a new teacher in the middle of the school year."

"No," said Oscar, bristling slightly. "Nothing about moving to the other side of the country is easy. Look." He wanted to change the subject, and said, "I really appreciate you fitting me in. Alan."

Alan smiled toothily. "No problem. I'm always willing to help an aspiring musician."

_Well good_, thought Oscar, _because you are a music teacher. _"We're in tune now."

"Good - not all of my students can do that so easily. Now I'd like you to play a few chords for me and we'll see what you can do."

A few chords quickly progressed to simple exercises, then some slightly more complex ones, and finally Oscar was asked to sight-read some sheet music that Alan apparently picked at random. He seemed very impressed with what he heard, and almost looked disappointed when the half-hour session came to an end.

"That was remarkable," he said. "There's still work to do, but I have to say you're at a standard that far exceeds your age. You must have a lot of natural talent - are there many musicians in your family?"

"Well," said Oscar, "my mother's a professional cellist and my father plays the violin for the London Symphony Orchestra."

"Oh, that _is_ interesting," said Alan, suddenly looking close to orgasm. "You're from a classical background, then."

"Oh, yeah, I can do classical too," said Oscar, and to demonstrate he tapped out a couple of bars on _Carmen_ on the piano. Alan looked about to faint. "But I generally prefer something a bit more upbeat."

"I can understand that. _My _parents wanted me to get into jazz."

Oscar smiled politely.

"Listen - how are you settling in?" Alan leaned casually against the piano, obviously with no intention of going anywhere. "Are you having any problems?"

"I'm settling in fine," Oscar lied.

"You can always come to me, you know, if you have any worries or anything."

"Er… thanks, I will."

"Well." He looked faintly disappointed. "I guess I'd better let you get to your next class, then. What is it?"

"Um." He had to think for a moment. "History."

"I hated history - couldn't remember the dates to save my life. Oh, hi Danny!"

Oscar turned round reflexively, and saw a boy he'd already seen in a couple of classes leaning against the doorframe. This kid was instantly recognisable, being almost unnaturally skinny and having short spiked hair bleached with peroxide. He smiled toothily at Alan and said, "Hey there, Alan."

"Was there something you wanted?"

"No, no. Just thought I'd drop in and say hi."

"Oh." Alan looked delighted. "Well, that's really nice, Danny - but I think you'd better be getting to class now, hadn't you?"

Danny glanced at his watch, and his surprise seemed genuine. "Oh, yeah - better had. See you tomorrow, Alan," and he turned to leave.

"Well," Alan said to Oscar, "I shall see you next week."

"Yeah," said Oscar. "See ya," and he exited the music room.

Danny was still out in the corridor, apparently waiting for him. He fixed Oscar with a friendly smile and said, "So what do you think of Call-Me-Alan?"

"I think," said Oscar, "I might be going to find him a bit much."

"You're new here, aren't you? Are you in Mr. Gregg's history class?"

"Yes."

"Great, me too. Come on." Danny started to walk, and Oscar followed. "But anyway, _everyone_ finds Alan a bit much, but he's a good teacher - he knows his stuff. I really think you'll do well with him. I heard you play - it was amazing."

"Um, thanks."

"Are you interested in playing professionally?"

"Oh, _God_ yes," said Oscar. "It's all I've ever wanted to do."

"Really? Like, in a band? On stage?"

"Yes. Well, that's the dream."

Danny stopped walking, and turned a sixty-watt smile on him. "Perfect. Can you sing?"

"Yes," said Oscar. "Well, I'll probably need some coaching because my voice is changing, but… yes."

"Have you ever tried composing?"

"Yes," Oscar said again. This was beginning to feel distinctly like an interview. "I just started - I don't know how good I am."

"Well," said Danny, "I guess we'll see."

"I don't write lyrics."

"Ever tried?"

"No. I'm a musician - I'm not good with words."

"Well, that's ok - I write lyrics. Or I try to. So what do you say?"

"Um." Oscar blinked. "I'm sorry - did you just ask me to join your band?"

"We're not quite a band yet," said Danny. "We just hang out at each other's houses playing old Iron Maiden hits and stuff. We're good, though I say so myself, but what we really need is a front man and _you're it_. What's your name anyway?"

"Oscar Wallance."

"Danny Hart. I'm the drummer." They shook hands. "Is that really your name?"

Oscar frowned. "Of course it's my name."

"That's a great name."

"I hate it."

"Oh yeah? You got a middle name too?"

"Yes," said Oscar, "and it's even worse."

Danny smiled. "All right, I won't push. Come on - I'll introduce you to Tim and Ella before class."

Oscar was faintly surprised to learn that one of the band members was a girl, though he felt he probably shouldn't be. He was reminded of the addition of guitarist Charlotte Hatherley to the Irish rock band Ash in nineteen ninety-seven; it had caused some controversy, and people had assumed that she must be the lead singer's girlfriend. But Oscar, aged only nine, had reserved judgement, and it became obvious when he heard Charlotte play that she had been chosen solely on the basis of her talent. 'Ninety-seven was also the year Ghostbusters had reformed, of course. In November Peter had jetted off to New York for a birthday party and ended up missing Thanksgiving, and nothing had ever really been the same after that.

Danny's two friends were hanging around outside Mr. Gregg's classroom, probably waiting for Danny. Oscar recognised the girl straightaway. He hadn't picked up before that her name was Ella, but she was not easy to miss. She had a slight build and delicate features that in no way matched her disaffected scowl, heavy combat boots and cobalt blue hair. Her hair had been scarlet when Oscar first saw her, but she had changed it several times since then. Tim, on the other hand, could have been anyone with his light brown hair, grey eyes, lanky build and un-striking features.

"Ok, here we are," said Danny, taking Oscar's wrist and dragging him over to his two friends. "Tim Price, guitar, and Ella Stephens, bass. This," he said, addressing Tim and Ella, "is our new lead guitar and singer."

Ella eyed Oscar suspiciously. "Isn't that the new kid?"

"Yes," said Danny.

"Well, he's handsome - I'll give you that."

"As long as that's not all he is," said Tim.

"Oh, God no," said Danny. "I just heard him having a lesson with Call-Me-Alan - he's _at least_ as good as us."

Ella smiled insincerely at Oscar. "We're pretty good, you know."

"Well," said Oscar, "I'd like to hear you."

She looked at Danny. "Have you heard him sing?"

"You can all hear me sing," said Oscar. "Obviously you'll want to audition me."

Ella looked him up and down once more, and then asked, "Who are your influences?"

"All the guys at the front of the movement," said Oscar. "The Beatles, Iron Maiden, Alice Cooper… and I'm very impressed with what the Chilis have been doing lately."

"Just lately?"

"Yes."

"Meaning they were no good before?"

"No, they were good before. They're better now."

Ella raised her eyebrows. "All right," she said. "You've got yourself an audition, kid."

x x x

Peter spent most of Saturday surfing the net, trying to find out something, _anything_, about Arthur Woodcock. All he could find was a little something all but identical to what Janozs had told him - all but identical because it was on the museum's website, hidden amongst snippets about other little-known artists. There were also a few old newspaper reports about the three disappearances, including the article Peter had already seen, and the others were no different.

He'd spent an hour trying again on Sunday morning, to the sound of loud angry music pounding through the floor from Oscar's bedroom, when Jessica came up to him and rested her elbows on his knees. He looked down at her and smiled.

"Hey, Jessie."

"Mom sent me to see if you were looking at porn."

"No she didn't."

"No," said Jessica, "she didn't. She just wonders what's so interesting about the computer all of a sudden. And she said that if it's about that picture I have to stop you."

"Really?" Peter raised his eyebrows. "Why?"

"You're getting obsessed."

"Oh." Peter winced. "People have started to notice."

"It's only a picture," said Jessica.

He started to stroke her hair, and smiled. He loved that girl. "I know," he said.

"Can we go to the park and kick a ball around?"

"Sure," said Peter, and told the computer to shut down. Useless thing. "Would it be any good asking Oscar to come, do you think?"

Jessica shook her head. "He's busy making himself deaf."

x x x

Monday lunchtime, and Oscar was waiting patiently while Ella trailed various wires around the school auditorium. He was faintly surprised that he was to be auditioned by three cocky teenagers in a school environment, but he supposed they might all think it a bit early to be taking him to their homes. After all, if the audition didn't go well, they probably couldn't sustain much of a friendship afterwards.

"Nervous?" asked Ella. She seemed to enjoy trying to provoke him, perhaps because she wanted to test his nerve - she wouldn't want a nervy front man in her band.

"No," said Oscar.

"You're confident, aren't you?"

"Fairly." His voice seemed to be behaving itself for the moment, but he didn't say so, as fate had a nasty habit of snatching away luck if one acknowledged it out loud.

"That's good," said Tim. "You have to be confident in this business."

"As long as there's something behind it," Ella said sceptically.

Call-Me-Alan had arranged for the auditorium to be empty for them for the first half of the lunch hour. He was more than prepared to go out of his way to encourage promising young musicians. Ella had a theory, based on the old maxim that those who can't do, teach. Call-Me-Alan had wanted to be a famous musician - _any_ kind of musician - and failed. Now he sought comfort in giving what meagre assistance he could to budding young musicians who were just plain better than him, in the hope that he could one day bask in their reflected glory. Oscar thought that Ella could be very cruel sometimes.

"All right." All that wire, and she'd finally set up an electric guitar and a microphone. "The stage is ready for you."

Oscar ascended the steps to the stage, took the guitar from Ella and lowered the microphone. "How tall do you think I am?" he asked, mainly to test the mic.

"You look good on stage," remarked Ella, taking her seat in the middle of the front row next to Tim, the empty chairs getting gradually smaller behind their heads.

"Thank you," said Oscar, beginning to work his fingers over the guitar strings. Ella had tuned it for him - she didn't want to watch him standing up there tuning. "So I'm told we have some Chilis fans in the audience."

Danny and Tim whooped and cheered, beginning to enjoy themselves. Ella maintained her blank stare. Oscar, unfazed, started to play. He knew he was good, and quite honestly he didn't much care if Ella thought otherwise. Almost unintentionally, he found himself singing "Under the Bridge". It was the first song that came into his head. The opening line was, _Sometimes I feel like I don't have a father_.

Danny leaned over Tim towards Ella and whispered, "Told you he was good."

"Yeah," murmured Ella. "And doesn't he know it."

"All successful rock stars know they're good," said Tim. "You _have_ to show off if you want to get anywhere."

"Come on, Ella," said Danny. "He's beautiful, he's charismatic, he's confident, he's got a great voice and he hasn't played one wrong note. Tell me what this guy hasn't got."

"'Tude," said Ella.

"Well," said Danny, "he's only just come here from LA. He'll get some 'tude soon enough."

x x x

By mid-week, Peter decided it really was time to give Mrs. Wilson her painting back. He called her on Wednesday morning, and she told him to come over. Her husband was at work and her daughter was at preschool. She answered the door with Harry on her hip, and the first thing she did was ask Peter if she wanted to hold him.

"Let's swap," said Peter, offering her the portrait.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Venkman," she said, feeling terrible, judging by her tone of voice. "I'm afraid I've wasted so much of your time. Laura hasn't claimed to see any more ghosts - she must have been making it up. I never thought she'd…" She tailed off.

"It's ok," said Peter, jigging Harry on his hip. "I could have given up on this a long time ago - it's not your fault. To be honest, I needed the distraction."

Then he noticed Mrs. Wilson looking searchingly at his face, and realised that he was wearing a pretty pained expression. He tried to change it, but too late. Mrs. Wilson said, "Would you like to come in and talk about it?"

"Um." Peter looked at Harry, and thought that he'd like to go on holding him a little bit longer. "Yeah, I would."

x x x

Danny's parents were quite clearly loaded, Oscar surmised when he entered the five-bedroom semi-detached house. Danny's dad wasn't home from work yet, but Oscar was introduced to his stepmother - a pleasant enough woman in her thirties called Jenny. She was younger than Danny's dad, which made Oscar think of his own stepmother, Kate; both she and Jenny were doing it all for the first time, and were younger than their husbands. Jenny, Oscar guessed, _was_ the mother of the two small boys they almost tripped over on the way upstairs. Danny also had another brother of about sixteen, presumably his mother's son, who pointedly ignored them.

"Your family's nice," remarked Oscar.

Danny shrugged. "Yeah, they're ok. Just dump your bag anywhere."

Oscar looked vaguely around Danny's bedroom, which was not unlike his own - bed, desk, computer, television, sound system, posters on the walls and such - and offloaded his school bag in front of the wardrobe. When he turned round Danny was sitting on the bed. Oscar, armed with his acoustic guitar, went to join him.

"I've never really shown anyone this stuff before," Danny said nervously.

"Well," said Oscar, with an encouraging smile, "it couldn't be as bad as something like, say, _Bus stop, Wet day, She's there, I say, Please share my umbrella_."

Danny winced. "God, I hope not."

"Show me."

Danny leaned over to reach the dresser by the bed, stretching over Oscar so that they were almost touching. Oscar instinctively leaned back slightly as Danny pulled open a drawer, took out a small crumpled notebook and pushed the drawer back into place. He then sprung back to his original position.

"Well, here it all is." He handed the notebook to Oscar. "I hope you can read my handwriting. But some of it might not make a whole lot of sense anyway. Sorry."

"Don't apologise." Oscar flipped open the notebook and ran his eye over the first page. "No one would expect them to be perfect at this stage."

Sensing Danny's discomfort, Oscar read through the scribbled lyrics. The first attempt was an angsty ream of teenage woes that consisted mostly of cliché, but the diction did show promise and by the time Oscar was on page ten the ideas had been polished and refined into sheer poetry.

"It gets better," said Oscar.

"Yes, well, I know there's not much we can do with the earlier stuff," said Danny. "Any part of it that was even a little bit good, I already developed it into something stronger. Well… _I _think it's stronger."

Oscar nodded vigorously. "It is. Danny, this is…" - the first word to come to mind was "beautiful", but he didn't want to come across as too enthusiastic at this stage - "it's really great stuff. Especially this one: _I'm a stain on your past, Couldn't get away fast enough, A blotch on your record - not the first but the last…_"

"That's kind of about my mom," said Danny.

Oscar nodded. "I know the feeling. It's angry, but what pisses you off is not so much what happened but more that it bothers you so much. Well, that's what it says to _me_. It's probably different for you, but anyway" - he hitched up the guitar and played a few chords - "it's got to be fast paced like, like…" He stopped talking - unlike Danny, he wasn't good with words - and strummed out a confused medley of notes until he got into a rhythm he seemed to like. Then, when he felt comfortable with what he was playing, he started singing the lyrics to the first melody that came into his head: "_Just draw a line under me, Try to set yourself free, Just leave me be-hiiiind and turn your back, Get your life back on track…_"

"Wow." Danny was staring at him, open-mouthed. "Did you just come up with that?"

"Er, yeah," said Oscar.

"That's amazing."

"It's far from perfect."

"Not _that_ far."

"It'll need some work."

"You," said Danny, "are a musical genius."

Oscar laughed. "Hardly!"

"And you got a really good voice."

"Well, don't get too attached - it keeps changing."

"Do you _really_ think you're not that good?"

"No," said Oscar. "I don't like false modesty any more than the next guy. I know how good I am, and I also know I can get better."

"We can all get better," said Danny. "But you're already way above average. You must practise for, like, an hour a day at the very least. How long have you been playing?"

"I started learning the guitar when I was six, but my mother had me learning music before I even started school. There's nothing I love more than music - I hope you know how serious I am about this."

"Look, don't worry - we're _all_ serious." Evidently subtlety was not lost on Danny Hart. "But we needed _you_ to complete us. You can obviously compose, and it sounds like your voice is plenty strong enough to carry a whole song. All we need now is to crack on with the writing, and we're there!"

"Does the band have a name?" asked Oscar.

"Ah," said Danny. "No."

"We'll think of something."

"Well." Danny picked up the notebook and began flicking idly through it "We'll all get together at the weekend and see if we sound as good together as I think we're going to. We can discuss names then."

"You sounded pretty good without me," said Oscar.

"Why thank you," said Danny, smiling. "And _with_ you we'll be sensational."

Oscar felt himself smiling, genuinely happy for the first time in weeks. This wasn't the first time he had been complimented on his talent. He had been truthful with Danny - he _did_ know how good he was - but it was always nice to hear it confirmed. And he was beginning to feel extremely positive about the band. He trusted that he had found the real thing now. Danny, Tim and Ella must all be dedicated to play as well they could; however talented one was, it took a great deal of practice and patience to play that well at their age. And, equally importantly, they had been getting on well. Oscar liked all of them, even Ella, which was essential if they were going to make music together. He was so glad they'd accepted him. He still felt that his home and his life were in LA, but since he was going to have to stay in New York for quite some time he figured he might as well try to make the most of it. And besides, the band could one day be his ticket out of there.

"The music's the important part, of course," Danny added.

"Oh, well," said Oscar, "lyrics are important too."

"The music's more important."

"No it isn't."

"It is," said Danny. "It's the music people remember. It's the melody that makes you feel exactly how you felt the first time you heard it."

"It's both," Oscar insisted. "Like, if I said to you, the Power of Love…"

Danny's face split into a grin. "_Back to the Future_."

"My point exactly. What would that song be without those words? The lyrics are beautiful - _It's strong and it's sudden, and it's cruel sometimes, but it might just save your life_… - I'm telling you, a song is nothing without good lyrics."

"I'm so glad you like my lyrics," said Danny.

"I'm so glad I've found a good lyricist to work with," said Oscar.

He saw Danny blush slightly, and his own face felt pretty hot as well. Perhaps, Oscar thought, the exchange of flattery was getting a bit much. But evidently Danny thought they could take it a lot further, for at that moment he leaned over and kissed him.

Oscar didn't react at first. He was surprised, initially only because Danny had kissed him, and then because he realised that he didn't hate it. The obvious thought occurred to him: _Am I gay?_ He held his position, with Danny's lips on his, neither of them moving, neither of them kissing the other like they wouldn't kiss their mothers. As the seconds elapsed, Oscar became increasingly confused. He had kissed a couple of girls before, not because he found them particularly attractive, but rather because they seemed to want him to. He wasn't feeling any more with Danny than he had felt with them, either in the way of enjoyment or repulsion. He wasn't feeling any less either. He wasn't feeling anything, except baffled and slightly afraid. Realising this, Oscar was the first to pull away.

"I'm sorry," said Danny, the look in his pale eyes pretty much reflecting what Oscar felt. "I… I don't know what came over me."

"Are you gay?" asked Oscar, with remarkable bluntness.

"I don't know," said Danny.

"Why did you _do_ that?"

"I guess I felt like it. I'm sorry."

"It's ok," Oscar said uncertainly. "Am… am _I_ gay?"

Danny's mouth twitched slightly, as though he wanted to smile but didn't quite dare. He said, "Only you can answer that one, Oscar."

"I've never thought I might be before."

"I have. A couple of times. A couple of times I've thought I'm not. There's some lyrics about it in here," he added, indicating the notebook that apparently contained his every thought and feeling.

"What do we do now?" asked Oscar.

Danny shook his head, as though trying to shake his thoughts into some semblance of order. "I don't know. I shouldn't have done that, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to confuse you. Look, Oscar, whatever happens… I want us to keep on being friends."

"Well," said Oscar, "good, because I wouldn't let you boot me off the band."

"Oh, don't worry about that - we need you. Look, maybe we'd better come back to the songs another time. I'm feeling a bit…"

"What?"

"Thrown."

"Well," said Oscar. "Yeah. Me too."

"Would you like to stay for dinner?"

"Is that ok with your parents?"

"Yeah - Jenny told me to ask you as soon as I said you were coming over."

There was no more awkwardness in Danny's tone - obviously when he said he still wanted to be Oscar's friend, he meant it. Oscar agreed to stay for dinner, and called Dana to let her know. He knew she'd be glad he was making friends, and he also thought she'd probably be quite appalled if she knew he had kissed one of the ones who happened to be male. Actually, he thought, they would all hate it: Dana, Peter and Andre. It would cause no end of arguments between them. Dana would blame Andre. Andre would blame Peter. As the scenario unfolded in his mind, Oscar began to feel quite indignant. If he _was_ gay - and he was far from sure that this was the case - it was no one's fault. It shouldn't even be a problem. But he knew that it would be.

Danny's family chatted easily to Oscar over dinner, and then Jenny offered to drive him home. Oscar accepted the offer, and she carried on chatting to him in the car all the way. It wasn't until he was back home, lying on his bed with the comforting tones of Def Leppard nurturing his frazzled mind, that he was able to mull over the evening's events. He realised that he had never been that interested in girls in Los Angeles. He had been on a few dates, because that was what his peers were doing and girls seemed to like him, but he had never got much out of them. But that alone didn't mean he was gay.

He hadn't been interested in boys either. Oscar was already beginning to feel a close bond of friendship with Danny, but he didn't think it was in any way sexual. His best friend in LA had been a girl called Rachel Klein. He'd felt close to her, but that wasn't sexual either. It occurred to him that he might be completely asexual; but then he wondered if perhaps he was bi, considering that he had a good sexual relationship with his own body, if no one else's. Masturbatory activities had been put on the backburner just lately, he realised, because he simply hadn't felt like it, but he put that entirely down to stress.

Perhaps what Oscar found most upsetting was the feeling that he couldn't talk to anyone about any of this. He wouldn't take his concerns to Peter now, no matter what they were, but even before all the trouble Oscar wouldn't have felt he could talk to his dad (_step-dad, step-dad_, he thought frantically) about this one. Peter had always been very open about the changes Oscar's mind and body were going through. It was completely normal to have sexual feelings. It was ok for him to touch himself because it felt good. There was no need to feel ashamed or embarrassed or afraid. It was ok to be interested in girls. But he hadn't said it was ok to be interested in guys. He hadn't said either that it was ok _not_ to be interested in girls. It didn't seem to occur to him that Oscar _wouldn't_ be interested. Well, perhaps he would - there was still time. But what if it never came?

There was no need to be embarrassed about wet dreams - that was another. Not being embarrassed about those was a pretty tall order, but Peter's input had undoubtedly made the whole experience easier than it would otherwise have been. The dreams had been quiet for a while as well, come to think of it. Oscar thought back through the weeks and months and realised that he hadn't experienced a single sexual feeling, either in sleep or in wakefulness, since he was told they were going to leave Los Angeles.

A few weeks ago Oscar would have gone straight to Peter with a problem like that. But he wasn't going to talk to him anymore - not about his body or his mind or his life or anything. So whom could he go to? Andre? He _was_ Oscar's father, technically. Oscar had called Andre as soon as the landline in the new house was set up, and hadn't heard back from him yet. Well, he was probably busy - he had three other kids. But, Oscar thought, _he_ was Andre's kid too. Wasn't he important? Before they left LA, he had seriously thought about getting into the habit of calling Andre "Dad". But that, he realised, probably wasn't going to happen now. He couldn't call the man "Dad" and he couldn't talk to him about embarrassing personal problems. _"Hey, Andre - can I call you Dad? Well, Dad, I kissed a guy and I can't get a hard-on."_ Er, no.

He rolled over onto his front and thought about making love to his pillow, as he used to do fairly frequently back home, but he just didn't feel the desire any longer. Even his own body was letting him down, it seemed. So instead he struggled through his maths homework, wondering as he waded uphill through a worksheet of problems what the hell was happening to everything he had thought he knew about himself.

_There's still the music_, Oscar desperately tried to reassure himself. _The music will always be there._

_To be continued…_

**Disclaimer: **"Under the Bridge" © Kiedis, Balzary, Smith and Frusciante, 1991; "Bus Stop" © Clark, Hicks and Nash, 1966; "The Power of Love" © J. Colla, C. Hayes and H. Lewis, 1985


	3. Chapter 3

_Ghostbusters: _**Don't Try to Change Me**

Part 3

Peter was beginning to worry about himself. He was still thinking about the portrait. Its absence was burning a hole in his car's glove compartment. That, he knew, was ridiculous. He was also missing his old relationship with Oscar, of course. And, even now, he still hadn't made love to Dana in their new home. He didn't know what worried him more - this in itself, or the fact that he had thought of the portrait first.

He wandered into the kitchen and asked, "Ozzie, do you want a lift to school?" Ozzie. Wow. Where did that come from? He hadn't called him that in years.

"I'm getting the bus," said Oscar.

"How about you, Jessie?" That name had been cropping up a lot more than usual as well.

"_I'm_ getting the bus," said Jessica.

"Are you?"

"Yes. And Oscar's walking me to the bus stop so you don't have to."

"Right," said Peter. "Ok."

After the kids had left for the bus stop, Peter started drying the dishes that Dana was washing up, and said to her, "I'm sorry we haven't had sex lately."

Dana snorted with laughter.

"What?"

"I'm sorry, honey - it's just the way you say it."

"I don't really know what to do about it," Peter went on. "I feel terrible."

"I haven't felt like it either," said Dana.

"No, but you quite often don't feel like it. _You_ don't feel emasculated."

"Peter." She looked at him. "Don't be ridiculous. You're just worried about our son."

"You know what's worrying me now?"

"What, honey?"

"What to do about Oscar's birthday."

"Well," said Dana, handing him a mug to dry, "actually, I've been thinking about that, and I've had an idea that I happen to think is rather brilliant."

"Go on," said Peter, intrigued.

"Kevin."

"Kevin?"

"Yes. Oscar won't want you or me organising a party for him, but you could get Eduardo to ask Kevin to organise a little something. It might even cheer him up."

"Oh, wow, my wife's a genius," said Peter, beaming, and he kissed her on the cheek. "Hey, maybe he'll even meet a nice girl there."

"A _nice_ girl?" Dana pulled a face. "Bear in mind where Kevin goes to school, honey."

"Dana, you're such a snob."

"He can do better than Kevin's acquaintances."

"What about presents?" asked Peter.

Dana shrugged. "Just buy him something nice and see how he reacts."

"Right," said Peter. "Ok. Well, look, why don't I go now and see if Eddie's at the firehouse?"

"Ok," said Dana. "If you don't want to see what happens when you try to seduce me."

Peter blinked. "Do you want to…?"

"Honey." She touched his arm. "Whenever you're ready."

This was clearly supposed to reassure him, but it just made Peter feel even worse. Whenever _you're_ ready. That must mean she felt ready herself, so he could no longer pretend he was waiting for her to get her libido back. Now, they were both just waiting for him.

x x x

When Peter got to the firehouse he found that Eduardo _was_ there, this time without Kylie or Conchita. Peter had begun to wonder just how much time they spent together. Living together and working together must get a bit, well, claustrophobic.

"Hey," said Peter, interrupting some paperwork that Eduardo was doing (and what a welcome interruption it was), and started to run Dana's proposal by him.

"Carlos won't let him have a party at home," said Eduardo. "He might be persuaded to let Kev organise a party at the firehouse, but… well, to be honest, he doesn't really like Oscar very much."

"_What_?" exclaimed Peter, more shrilly than he intended.

"He doesn't approve of the rock-and-roll lifestyle."

"Yes, well, I'm fairly sure Oscar abstains from the sex and drugs aspect of it."

"And he doesn't think boys should have long hair."

"Oscar doesn't _have_ long hair anymore."

Eduardo smiled slightly. "I'll be sure to mention that."

So, now the birthday party was in the hands of Eduardo and Kevin Rivera. Peter no longer had that to worry about. He tried to distract himself with self-induced agony over possible birthday presents, but since he had already witnessed Oscar salivating over the electric guitar he'd like, should anyone be good enough to buy him a new one, it didn't really work.

That damn picture of Arthur Woodcock was on his mind again. Peter had decided he didn't actually like the idea that it _was_ Arthur Woodcock, and he was imagining that Eleanor had made a mistake and some other teenage boy had suffered somehow.

"Egon," said Peter, bursting into Egon's lab. "I think I might be clinically insane."

"Oh, not clinically, Peter," said Egon, not looking up from what he was doing.

"It's that damn portrait!" Peter went on, beginning to pace the room. "Why the hell can't I stop thinking about it?"

"Well," said Egon, "you're the psychologist, of course, but if you want to hear what _I _think…"

Peter shook his head. "Don't bother. I know what you think. I think the same thing myself. Anybody with an ounce of sense probably thinks it. I need to forget about the stupid picture of the kid that died sometime last century and try to work things out with my son."

"That sounds sensible," said Egon.

"He won't listen to me."

"That's very defeatist of you."

"Yes, well." Peter glanced at his watch. "He won't be home from school for a few hours. Is there anything I can do here?"

"Paperwork," said Egon.

Peter nodded. "Right," he said. "Paperwork. Of course."

x x x

When Peter arrived home that afternoon, Oscar was sitting on the stairs with the phone in his hand, looking faintly hypnotised. Peter closed the door, and Oscar started in surprise when it clicked into place.

"Hey," said Peter.

"Hey."

Dana was rehearsing with the orchestra and Jessica was at soccer practice. She seemed to be settling down fine, already having made the school soccer team, which Peter was extremely glad about. Oscar, on the other hand, wasn't looking too good at all.

"Are you ok?"

"Um." Oscar reached through the gap in the banisters and replaced the receiver on its cradle. "Andre finally returned my call."

"When did you call him?" asked Peter.

"Um." Oscar looked up, as though he expected the answer to be written on the ceiling, sniffed and said, "I guess about four weeks ago."

Peter opened his mouth, ready to make some disparaging remark about Andre, but quickly changed his mind. This was the first time Oscar had spoken civilly to him in weeks, and it might not last. He would have to play this one very carefully.

"He's had a lot on," said Oscar, his voice warbling slightly. "I mean, you have to prioritise, don't you? It's not like I'm his child or anything - not really. Shit," as a tear fell onto the back of his hand, and he stared down at it with an expression of utter bewilderment. "What's _this_ about?"

It was heartbreaking to watch. Peter went to join him halfway up the stairs, sat down beside him and put his arm around his shoulders. "It's ok to cry," he said gently.

Oscar shook his head. "Not about him."

"What did he say?"

"I can't really remember. It was all just small talk really. I was trying…" He paused, ran the back of his hand over his eyes and then leaned his head against Peter's shoulder. "I was trying to get him to say I could go and live with him."

"Oh," said Peter, momentarily stumped. Then he asked, "Would you have gone?"

Oscar shook his head. "I just wanted to scare you."

"You know it'd break my heart if you _did_ move out, don't you?" He raised his free hand, the one that wasn't on Oscar's shoulder, and stroked his hair. "I brought you here because I love you and I couldn't stand hardly ever seeing you."

Oscar didn't answer, and Peter didn't really expect him to. Perhaps it _was_ cruel to make him move so far away from home, he thought, but he'd had no idea it would be this difficult for any of them.

Peter was content just to sit with Oscar in his arms as the seconds ticked away, like they used to do years ago. Then, in a pin-sized voice, Oscar said, "Why doesn't he want me?"

"Because he's an idiot," said Peter, and dropped a kiss on the top of Oscar's head.

They sat for a few seconds more. Then suddenly Oscar stiffened, scrambled out of the hold and sprinted up the stairs. Peter, surprised and extremely puzzled, stood up and made to follow him. Then he heard a door slam, and sounds of violent retching wafted down from the bathroom. Peter furrowed his brow, wondering what had brought this on, and made his way downstairs. In respect for Oscar's privacy and dignity he would do his best not to listen to that, although it was fairly audible even downstairs in the kitchen.

A full twenty minutes later, Oscar came downstairs and stood in the kitchen doorway, unsteady on his feet and clutching the doorframe for support. Peter smiled encouragingly at him, and Oscar opened his mouth as though to say something. However he closed it again almost immediately, and ran upstairs for a second session. This time he was down in ten minutes. Peter handed him a glass of water, which Oscar took to the table.

"Thanks," he said, lowering himself laboriously onto a chair. The word sounded like it was being dragged over barbed wire.

"All out now?"

"I think so. Where does it all come from?"

"It was sudden," remarked Peter.

Oscar looked at him, his eyes registering nothing but exhaustion. It was almost as though he had spewed out his every emotion. "I hope you don't think it was anything to do with Andre," he said. "More like the other way around - I guess this explains why I got so emotional. I've been feeling lousy for a couple of days now."

Peter, cautiously, sat down opposite him. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I thought it was just homesickness." Oscar, the lingering smell of vomit hanging on his breath, took a sip of water. "I'm sorry about the tears."

"It's all right."

"Oh, Dad, I can't take time off school now - I'll never catch up!"

Peter's heart leapt when, for the first time in weeks, Oscar called him "Dad". He strongly suspected that he would be Peter again when the illness was no longer sapping Oscar's concentration, but it had to mean _something_.

"Maybe you'll be better by Monday."

"What if I'm not?"

"You'll catch up. You're smart."

"Oh, who are you trying to kid? If it's anything other than music I have to work my ass off if I want to get a C."

"Oscar," Peter said desperately. "It'll be fine. It'll all be fine."

"Yeah, well." Oscar leaned back in his chair, and watched as two drops of condensation raced each other down the side of his glass. Finally, after a long interval, he said, "I found them."

"Found what?"

"My band."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Three kids from school. They're good. They're all really promising musicians, but they're a bit lacking in focus and they all thought there was something missing. And none of them feels like they can carry a whole song, which I can. So they asked me to front the band. I was sort of hoping to go over some melodies with Danny this weekend, but…" - he tailed off with a shrug.

"Yeah? Do you compose now?"

"I try."

"I bet you're really good."

"Probably not. I'm only starting out."

"What about lyrics?"

"Danny does lyrics."

"Sounds pretty serious."

"It _is_ serious," croaked Oscar, unable to give the words the force they deserved. "We're going to get good, _really _good, get a record deal and then get the hell out of here."

Peter felt compelled to look down. "Oh," he said.

"Assuming," said Oscar, clutching a hand to his throat, "I get my voice back."

"You will. That's…" - he wondered for a moment whether to continue - "_one_ good thing you've found in New York."

"Musicians are everywhere."

"I'm so glad you're making friends."

Oscar didn't answer. He picked up the glass of water and resumed drinking.

"Oscar," said Peter. What he wanted to ask didn't seem particularly appropriate, but this really seemed like the only opportunity. "What do you want for your birthday?" He had to ask, just in case there was something he wanted more than that brand spanking new, very expensive electric guitar.

Oscar said at once, "I want to go home."

"Apart from that."

"You can't buy me."

"And I wouldn't dream of trying."

Oscar shrugged. "You know what I like. Look, I think I'll go take a bath - I feel really grubby." He preferred showers, but didn't really feel up to standing.

Peter stood up. "I'll go run the water for you." He always did that when one of the kids was sick, or else Dana did it.

Oscar almost smiled. "Thank you."

While Oscar was in the bath, Peter fluffed up his pillows and smoothed down the sheets and put a plastic bucket on the floor beside the bed.

x x x

There was relative quiet for a week or so. Oscar didn't feel well enough for school on Monday, but Dana went to fetch some homework for him and they went over it together on Tuesday. Peter was faintly amazed that Oscar was so eager to catch up with his schoolwork, and realised just how worried he must be about falling behind.

Eduardo called one evening, and said that his brother had agreed to let Kevin have a party at the firehouse on the sixteenth of March, which was the Saturday before Oscar's birthday. And that night, to Peter's surprise and relief, he felt like making love.

When it was over, and they'd recovered, Dana said, "It was worth the wait."

"I'm sorry," said Peter.

"It's ok."

They were silent for a while, as they lay just holding each other. They fell apart, and Peter was beginning to drift off to sleep, but then Dana started talking again.

"When Andre stopped wanting to have sex, I put pressure on him until he caved in, even though I didn't really want to either. When I found out I was pregnant, I wished I'd asked for a divorce instead."

"That's understandable," said Peter.

"Don't you think it's terrible?"

"No. Oscar wasn't a person then. As far as you were concerned, he was just a blue line on a pregnancy test."

"He was two actually," said Dana. "I never told anyone that before."

"You don't have to feel bad about it."

"Do you remember how happy we were when I got pregnant with Jess?"

"Of course I remember."

"And after she was born?"

He smiled at the memory, as the image of Jessica as a pink and shrivelled newborn baby popped into his head. "Yes."

"I didn't feel that happy after Oscar was born. I mean, I loved him like crazy, of course I did, but… I just felt really crap after the labour, and then I looked at Andre, and I thought, _Now I'm stuck with him_."

"Dana," said Peter. He turned onto his side and took her hand. "It's ok. Have you been feeling guilty about this for fourteen years?"

"Pretty much."

"You know, you're supposed to feel _good_ after sex."

Dana smiled in spite of herself. "Sorry."

x x x

Ella's parents owned a house every bit as big as Danny's, which Oscar didn't find at all surprising. He was a spoilt rich kid, and he was being sent to school with a lot of other spoilt rich kids. Ella, in stark contrast to Danny, was an only child who lived with both of her biological parents, neither of whom was there when the four kids arrived. That, Ella explained, was why her house was the one most often used.

"So what about _your_ folks?" she asked Oscar, as she led them into the house via a side-door in the garage, following their rehearsal. "Will they mind if we rehearse in your garage? Assuming you _have_ a garage, that is."

They were all feeling pretty fantastic, even Oscar - he felt entirely well again, and the band had just run through its first completed original song. It wasn't perfect just yet, but it was as good as any of them expected it to be, and it far exceeded Oscar's expectations. He had stumbled across some real talent here, or rather the real talent had stumbled across him. He had felt nervous at first, standing in front of that microphone while a melody he had composed welled up around him. But he always felt good when he opened his mouth and sang, and somehow when it was a song he had co-created it felt even better.

"We have a garage," he said. "My dad likes to keep his car in it, but I'm sure he wouldn't mind lending it to us occasionally."

"They're ok, your parents, are they?" asked Tim.

"Dad's cool," said Oscar, almost forgetting where he was and how he felt about that. "My mom's a bit more… well, traditional than he is, but she doesn't mind me having friends over."

"Any brats to watch out for?" asked Ella, as they all piled onto her living room furniture. She'd dyed her hair again - it was bubblegum pink now. Oscar was dying to ask her why she kept changing it.

"I got a little sister - she's eight. I think you'd like her, though."

"Yeah?" Ella cocked an eyebrow. "Well, we shall see."

"I thought he was your step-dad," said Danny.

Oscar turned his head to look at him. "What?"

"You called him your dad."

"Did I?" Oscar scowled. "Damn it."

"So you're close with your step-dad," said Tim. "That's fine. You were probably young when he married your mom."

"Four. And he was around for a while before that. We _were_ close. But now I'm severely pissed off that he made me move here and I'm trying to get out of the habit of calling him 'Dad'. No offence to you guys," he added hastily, "but my whole life was in LA."

"Oh, charming," said Ella.

"That's understandable," Danny said soothingly. "What about your other dad? He lives in England, doesn't he?"

"How do you know that?"

"I overheard you implying it to Call-Me-Alan."

"Oh," said Oscar. "Well, yeah, he does. I see him a couple of times a year at most. I don't like him very much, though. And I don't think he likes me either."

"Well in that case you _definitely_ shouldn't alienate your step-dad," Ella said knowingly, and Oscar began to prickle with annoyance. "You won't hate him forever."

"You seem to be doing ok here," added Tim. "I think you even quite like us."

"I do," said Oscar. "But that isn't the point. He shouldn't have made me come here in the first place."

"Why did he?" asked Ella.

"Work."

"Work?"

"He was here all the time. Working."

"I'll bet you missed him," said Tim.

"Yes," said Oscar, "but it isn't going to be any different now. He'll keep going back to LA for his _other_ job and I'll just be missing him miles away from home."

"Now that," said Ella, "is weird. How can you have two jobs, one of which you can _only_ do in LA and the other of which you can _only_ do in New York?"

"Well," Oscar said warily, "back home he's an actors' agent."

"And in New York…?"

"He's a Ghostbuster."

"Oh," said Ella, looking mildly interested. Then suddenly her eyes widened; she sat up sharply and exclaimed, "Oh my God - are you the baby from the movie?"

Oscar sighed. _Not this again…_ "Yes," he confessed. "I'm the baby from the movie."

"Oh my God!" Ella, in the short time Oscar had known her, had never been so animated. "That's so _cool_!"

"And your father lives in England?" asked Tim.

"Yes."

"Oh." A short pause. "Who _is_ your father?"

"The stiff."

"Who?"

"The guy by the fountain in _Ghostbusters_."

"Oh, him," said Tim. "_He's_ your father? I never realised."

"Why on earth not?" bristled Oscar. "Don't you listen to dialogue? An offer from an orchestra in London - who else is it going to be?"

"Sorry," Tim smiled apologetically. "I guess it went over my head."

"My older brother thinks Louis Tully's your father," said Danny.

Oscar started. "_What_?"

"Because he had sex with your mom in _Ghostbusters_."

Oscar flinched slightly. "Your brother's an idiot, Danny. Doesn't he listen to Sigourney Weaver either? I don't know if you remember, but she mentioned getting divorced. She was married to my father. _Why_ would she marry Louis? They were spellbound when… _that _happened. And besides, there was like five years between the movies. And," he added heatedly, "do I _look_ like Louis Tully?"

"None of us has ever seen the real Louis Tully," Ella pointed out. "You might be the spitting image, for all we know."

"I do _not_ look like Louis Tully!"

"Of course you don't," said Danny. "I'll tell my brother he's an idiot as soon as I get home - don't you worry about that."

Oscar calmed down slightly. "Thank you."

"Anyway," Danny went on, "we promised ourselves we'd come up with a name today."

"Good," approved Tim. "Then all we'll need is for Ella to decide what colour she wants her hair to be."

"I keep telling you, Ella, you can't go wrong with peroxide," said Danny.

"Why _do_ you keep changing it?" asked Oscar. She had asked him so many questions that were none of her goddamn business that afternoon, he felt entitled.

"Because," said Ella, "I hate my stupid boring hair colour, so I'm trying a few out."

"I don't think pink suits you," said Tim.

"No, neither do I," agreed Ella.

"I kinda liked the blue a while back," said Oscar.

"Did you?" Ella suddenly got to her feet. "I've got like a gallon of it left - you can have it," and she started to leave the room.

Oscar reached up and protectively clutched a fistful of his beautiful thick dark hair, as though he thought she might try to dye it then and there. "Oh, I don't think…"

"It's ok - I don't want it!" Ella's voice wafted down the stairs. She returned less than a minute later and handed him two bottles. "It'd look good on you. You've got such gorgeous blue eyes - it would really bring out their colour."

"She's right, you know," said Danny.

"That's bleach," Ella explained, noticing that Oscar was looking at one of the bottles with a puzzled expression. "You've got dark hair so you'll have to bleach it first."

"Oh, right," said Oscar, wondering how offended Ella would be if he never used either of her gifts. "Thanks."

"So," Danny said suddenly, in authoritative tones. "Names."

"How about some kind of Ghostbusters in-joke?" suggested Ella, not noticing as Oscar rolled his eyes. "The Gozarians. Ooh, no, wait - Vigo and the Carpathians."

Oscar winced. "No way - my mom would freak."

"Why?" Ella asked innocently.

"Don't you remember what Vigo almost did to me?"

"Oh yeah. Do you care if your mom freaks?"

"I guess not," said Oscar, "but I think we can do better."

"Do we have to decide right now?" asked Tim. "Only I kinda wanna go home and have some dinner."

"Me too," said Danny, getting to his feet. "Let's just all keep thinking about it. I'm sure inspiration will strike at least one of us."

Oscar planned to take a bus home. As it was a regular bus rather than a school bus, Dana didn't like that one bit, especially as it was a Friday night. But she and Peter were both at work (Peter had had to pick Jessica up from school and take her to the firehouse), and Oscar couldn't get another lift, so it had to be the bus.

"Hey, wait," said Danny, once they were out on the street, and Oscar slowed to let him catch up. "I'll walk you to the bus stop - it's not that far out of my way. Look, I'm sorry about Ella - she doesn't mind just _asking_ if she wants to know." A pause, then, "But I guess I did it too, didn't I? Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," said Oscar. "You're my friends - you should know these things."

"It isn't any of our business."

"It's fine."

Danny seemed to sense that Oscar wanted to change the subject, and said, "Are you going to use that dye?"

Oscar thought fearfully of the two bottles in his school bag and said, "Probably not."

"I think you'd look really hot with blue hair." Danny stopped walking then, and grabbed Oscar's wrist to stop him too. "Not that you don't look really hot now."

Oscar allowed himself to be kissed again. And this time it was the kind of kiss they wouldn't administer to their mothers - it was open-mouthed, and lasted a good few seconds. Oscar worried that Danny might want to use his tongue - he hadn't even done that with a girl yet - but it seemed that he was safe for now.

"Are you sure yet?" asked Oscar, when Danny pulled away.

"Fairly," said Danny.

"Isn't it a bad idea for band members to date each other?"

"Oh, I don't know. Tim and Ella used to go out."

"Really? When?"

"Six weeks ago. It didn't work out, so they went back to being friends and now it's fine."

"Well," said Oscar, "the thing is that I'm really not at all sure I'm gay."

Danny smiled slightly. "What a waste."

"I'll let you know, ok?"

"Sure, sure, take your time." He paused. "I guess we'd better go catch that bus."

x x x

As he climbed into bed that night, his skin tingling and inked crimson after a shower, Oscar felt relaxed and even happy. Almost without thinking he found himself running his hands over his body, and realised that at long last he felt like making love to his pillow again. He pushed the pillow down and straddled it, savouring each sensation, thankful that at least his body was beginning to behave itself again. He had to stifle his moan in the mattress when the climax came - the relief was, quite frankly, overwhelming.

Afterwards he lay back, feeling good but a little confused, trying to remember what he had been thinking about. He was pretty sure he hadn't been thinking about another guy - Danny or anyone else. He was also fairly confident that the urge to masturbate hadn't been the result of seeing Danny and kissing him again. He didn't _feel_ gay, but then he didn't feel particularly straight either. There were no girls he was interested in - not that he knew many girls in New York yet. Just Ella, and he was a little scared of her.

Oscar rolled over onto his side, thinking that he was probably just a late starter, or other kids his age were early starters, and there was no point in worrying about it now. One day, he knew, it would come.

x x x

The next morning, still feeling reasonably optimistic, Oscar walked into the kitchen and just froze. He stared for a few moments. He kept his mouth shut, not trusting it. Why should he, when his eyes seemed to be lying to him?

"Hey," Andre smiled at him.

"Hey," said Oscar.

Dana was there too. They were both standing, leaning on one of the kitchen surfaces, and Oscar just knew they had been talking about him. And why not? They were his parents, and he was going through a troubled phase.

"What are you doing here?"

"I think I probably sounded a little cold on the phone," said Andre. "I'm sorry about that. You sounded really unhappy."

"Yeah, well…"

"So I took a couple of days off work, because I think you and I need to talk." He paused. "Can we get out of here?"

Oscar looked at Dana.

"You can go if you want to, honey."

Oscar shrugged, wanting them both to think he couldn't care less whether he was there or anywhere else, with Andre or without. "All right."

x x x

Peter had got up early, at least by his standards, and dropped in on Mrs. Wilson. He took her a bunch of flowers, realising that he hadn't really thanked her for all that listening she did, ooh, days ago now. He'd talked to her about all of his problems except the problem with his sex life. She had just listened, not even trying to give advice, and Peter was grateful for that.

"Y'know," said Mrs. Wilson, looking bemusedly down at the flowers in her hands, "my husband's home."

Peter blinked. "I wasn't trying to… They're just to say thank you. You know, for listening."

"Oh." Her expression relaxed. "So how are things with your son?"

"Well, I'm still not his favourite person, but he seems happier now."

"That's good."

"How's Laura?" asked Peter.

"Ah." She looked faintly awkward. "No more ghost complaints. I'm - "

"Don't apologise again," said Peter, though he was quietly beginning to resent Laura for making it all happen, just a little bit. She was only a kid after all, kids did stupid things - but quite honestly, he'd been on one heck of a wild goose chase. And now, wondering what happened to those three people eighty-odd years ago, and whether Arthur's painting them had anything to do with their disappearances, was going to drive him insane.

x x x

"Thanks." Oscar, seated at a window table in a chic little café, accepted the Coke with a faint smile. "So what _is _this?"

Andre, nursing a cup of coffee, sat down opposite him. "Well, I - "

"Did Kate make you come here?"

"No. I just wanted to clear something up. You don't _really_ want to come and live in England, do you?"

Oscar looked at him, not hurrying his answer, trying to guess Andre's thoughts. Finally he said, "What if I said I did?"

"Well, if it was what you really wanted… I'm sure something could be arranged."

"Oh yes?" Oscar raised his eyebrows. Andre must have known that was a pretty safe idle promise to make. "You wouldn't be calling my bluff, would you, Andre?"

"Oscar," he said, and sighed. "I don't really believe you want to move away from your mom and your sister and your… Peter. Any idiot can see how much you love them."

"So you _were _calling my bluff."

"Oscar, please…"

"What do you want?"

Andre shook his head, obviously struggling to find the words. "I don't _want_ anything, Oscar. Only to let you know that I care. Please believe that. And if you want to talk to me, you can call at any time."

Oscar very nearly choked on his Coke. He looked up sharply and said, "I waited _weeks_ for you to return my last call!"

Andre exhaled heavily. "I'm sorry about that. I don't know what else to say. I could give you my excuses, if I thought you wanted to hear them."

"Work?" suggested Oscar. "Kids? Birthdays?"

"Oh, yeah - thanks for sending the kids their presents."

Oscar acknowledged the thanks with a nod. His half-brother Hayden's birthday was easy enough to remember; it was the same day as Kylie's and Abraham Lincoln's. Lars's birthday was a couple of weeks later. Their little sister, Emilia, had her birthday very early in January.

"You don't have to thank me - they wrote," Oscar said. "I think Emi wrote her letter herself this year." She was only four, and still learning. "Or else something pretty terrible has happened to Kate's handwriting."

Andre smiled. Oscar couldn't tell whether it was the joke he appreciated, or the compliment to his daughter's intelligence, or whether he was just trying to give the right response.

"They're nice kids," said Oscar. "I enjoyed reading their letters."

"They'd love to see you. I hope you can come and visit in the summer."

Oscar doubted that he meant that. He said, "We'll have to see."

"Oscar…"

"Yes?"

"I… I'm sorry you're not happy."

Oscar shrugged. "I'll be all right."

"New York isn't so bad, you know. I was happy here."

"I'm not you."

Andre looked down into his coffee. "No."

"Just so I know," said Oscar, "were you planning on sticking around?"

"No. I _was_ planning on going home tomorrow."

"Ok."

"Do… you _want_ me to stay?"

Oscar shook his head. "What good would it do? You're not going to buy an apartment in LA and live in it with me, are you?"

"No," said Andre.

"Then there's no point."

"Well… Oscar… I'll be in touch."

Oscar was dubious. He'd heard that before.

"And I really hope you get to like it here. You know I want you to be happy. Of course, if it were me I wouldn't have - "

"Don't start on him," Oscar said sharply. "It _isn't_ you - you left. My life is nothing to do with you anymore. I mean, God, at least he _wanted_ to take me with him."

"I'm sorry," said Andre. A short silence. "I… I like your hair."

"Do you?"

"Yes. It's a vast improvement."

_Damn it,_ thought Oscar.

x x x

When the cab arrived outside the house, Peter was just pulling into the driveway. Oscar panicked, and looked sharply at Andre. This could get awkward. Unless, of course, Andre stayed in the cab and yelled, "Drive! DRIVE!" as soon as Oscar got out.

But no. Andre climbed out of the cab, and was careful to catch Peter's eye. Jesus, what was he playing at? Peter looked as surprised as Oscar had felt.

"You didn't know about this?" asked Oscar, as he approached the house.

Peter shook his head. "What… what's he doing here?"

"He wanted to talk to me."

"About what?"

"That's none of your business."

"Go inside."

Peter didn't take his eyes off Andre the whole time he was talking, and with these last words he started walking towards the unwanted visitor. Oscar, damned if he was going to be told what to do by _him_, followed.

"What the hell are you doing here?" demanded Peter.

"I'm here for my son," said Andre.

"He isn't _your_ son."

"I am," said Oscar.

Peter turned on him sharply. "I said go inside."

"_You_ don't have any right to tell me what to do."

Neither of them heard Andre's sigh. He did it quietly, because he didn't want to seem to be causing any more trouble. He didn't really want to say it, but he had to get rid of Oscar, and so said, "Please go inside, Oscar."

It was tricky, but at that moment Oscar was madder with Peter, so he decided to piss him off by going inside.

"Oh, he did it," said Andre, looking genuinely surprised.

"He doesn't need you," said Peter.

"No? So what _does_ he need?"

"Time."

"Do you know how much you've been upsetting him?"

"Just shut the fuck up!" yelled Peter. He then happened to glance to his left by some instinct, at his own house, and saw Jessica appear in the living room window. She grinned, and gave him a thumbs-up. Peter, not quite knowing what to make of this, turned his eyes back to Andre and said, "I know, and I'm sorry for it. But I don't know how you think _you_ can help, showing up here pretending to care."

"I _do_ care," said Andre.

"You said he couldn't go and live with you."

"I never said that. I just didn't encourage him because I know he doesn't really _want_ to live with me."

"What if he did?"

"I'd take him."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "Would you? Right here, right now, in this cab? If that was what he wanted?"

"Yes!"

"You're lying."

Andre sighed deeply. "Fine, don't believe me. I can't prove it because he will _never_ want to be any closer to me than he already is. Oh shit," as Dana emerged from the house and started walking towards them.

"Peter," she said. "Don't swear in the middle of the street. Andre, what have you been saying to him?"

"Did you know he was coming?" asked Peter.

Dana shook her head. "No, he just showed up."

"Yeah, well." Andre caught something in her tone that made him feel the need to defend himself. "I thought if I called, you might say I couldn't see him."

"_What_?" shrieked Dana. "I would never - "

"HEY!" Not to be left out, Jessica was now advancing towards them. "Can you keep it down? You're upsetting Oscar."

She looked up at their faces, running a disapproving look over all of them, and the three exchanged guilty looks. Surprisingly, it was Andre who spoke first: "I'm sorry, Jessica."

She scowled at him. "What are you still _doing_ here?" She'd got up after Andre had left with Oscar, and Dana had told her he was around, but she had hoped to avoid seeing him.

"I was just leaving. Oh," he added, still looking at Jessica. "Hayden sends his regards."

Jessica started. "What? Why?"

"He seems to like you."

"Yeah, well," said Jessica. "You can tell him I said to piss off."

Dana's eyes widened. "Jessica!"

"I may paraphrase," said Andre, as he climbed back into the cab. "Bye, Dana."

The cab drove off. Only when it was out of sight did Jessica give a satisfied little nod and start walking back towards the house. Dana had also been watching the retreating cab, but then seemed to snap out of some kind of trance when it was gone. She followed Jessica inside, tottering slightly as her high heels struggled to catch up with Jessica's worn sneakers, saying shrilly, "Jessica, I don't care _what_ you think of him - you don't talk to _anyone_ like that…!"

Peter felt suddenly inclined to buy his daughter a nice big present.

x x x

On Sunday, Oscar seemed fine. Well, fine apart from being desperate to get hold of a copy ofboth the _Ghostbusters_ movies. Peter didn't ask why, and Oscar didn't tell him that Ella absolutely refused to give their band any name that was in no way related to either of the movies. Peter only said, "There's a copy of them at the firehouse."

"Can I have a lift?" asked Oscar.

Peter really wanted to know how Oscar was feeling after Andre's visit the day before, but he didn't ask. He just said, "Sure."

x x x

"Oh, look, there I am," Oscar said dully, in response to the close-up of the baby in the pram being pushed by Sigourney Weaver. He was faintly subdued after the end of _Ghostbusters_, at which point he had seemed to become faintly irritated.

For the first hour so, everyone had been watching - everyone consisting of Oscar and Peter, Eduardo, Kylie, Roland and Garrett, Conchita and all four Spenglers. However the four younger Ghostbusters had been called out on a case (not another maybe-ghost at the Wilsons', Peter was disappointed to learn), the twins had got bored and wandered off and Janine had followed them. So now it was just Egon, Oscar and Peter with Conchita falling asleep on him.

"You were way cuter than Hank and Will," said Peter.

"You were," Egon agreed.

"I expect you were way cockier than Bill Murray," said Oscar, without any expression in his voice, not taking his eyes from the screen.

"No one's cockier than Bill Murray," said Peter. Then he muttered, "Asshole."

"Don't start on Bill Murray," said Oscar. "I absolutely refuse to believe that Bill Murray is solely responsible for there being no _Ghostbusters Three_."

"Well he didn't exactly _help_ either," retorted Peter.

"Well, so what? I'm not sorry they didn't give you another movie - you only would have wanted something else. You're never satisfied."

Peter felt himself deflate. He had really thought that things were starting to get better with Oscar. Well, he told himself, they were really - he couldn't expect things just to go straight back to normal. He started thinking about all of the things Oscar had had to cope with just lately, all on top of each other. The move, the new school, the stomach bug and then Andre just showing up out of the blue to confuse things. Now _that_ was a good idea - he could blame Andre for any further problems.

Kevin Rivera turned up. Peter instantly leapt to his feet, careful to keep a firm hold of Conchita, but of course the sudden change in altitude woke her up. She looked a bit confused for a moment, and then squealed with delight when she saw that she was being carried towards her cousin.

"Hey!" beamed Kevin.

Peter bundled the baby into Kevin's outstretched arms and hissed, "He's here."

"Oh, good," whispered Kevin. "Because I wanted to talk about the party. Why are we whispering?"

"Just remember it was all your idea, ok?"

"I remember." Kevin, carrying Conchita, went and sat next to Oscar. "Hey."

"Hello."

"It's a while since I saw this," said Kevin, looking at the screen.

"Me too," said Oscar. "I don't really like it, to be honest with you."

Kevin smiled. "Fair enough. Now listen, the party's on Saturday - are you _sure_ you don't want anything specific?"

"Aren't all parties pretty much the same?" asked Oscar.

"I suppose so. But I'm just really nervous - I hear you're really good at parties."

"Kevin, _my_ parties consist of taking a bunch of people down to the beach with a boom box."

"Right," Kevin said slowly. "And are you _sure_ you trust me to pick the music?"

"Yes."

"Because I'd really hate to get that wrong."

"How can you? It's all _your_ friends who are going."

"True," said Kevin. "Listen, what kind of girls do you like?"

Oscar stared at him. "_What_?"

"Well, you know - tall, short, blonde, dark…?"

"How shallow do you think I am?"

"So you're not fussy."

Oscar tried to push down the memory of kissing Danny as he said, "I'm not really looking to pick up girls."

"Why not?" asked Peter.

"Because," said Oscar, pointedly not turning to face him, "I don't need a woman to complete my life, and I don't need a quick grope in a cupboard to get the most out of a party. We don't _all_ think with our dicks."

Peter didn't retaliate. He thought that was fair, even if it wasn't what he wanted to hear. He was really hoping that Oscar would find himself a girlfriend soon. He couldn't see how Oscar could fail to get a girl, if he wanted one - he was gorgeous and he was a musician, and that was enough for some. If Oscar had a girlfriend, Peter thought, she would be a tick in favour of New York. But he knew better than to say so. They all just carried on watching the movie in silence.

"_This is how you spend your free time,"_ said Bill Murray.

Dan Aykroyd launched into his little soliloquy: _"Peter, this is an incredible breakthrough. I mean what a discovery - a psycho-reactive substance! Whatever this stuff is, it responds to human emotion."_

Bill Murray gave him a withering look and said, _"Mood slime."_

"Oh!" exclaimed Oscar. He slapped his forehead, and then suddenly leapt to his feet and shot out of the room. Egon, Peter and Kevin all turned in their seats and watched him go with puzzled expressions on their faces.

"What's with him?" asked Kevin.

Bewildered, Peter said, "He must hate this movie more than I thought."

x x x

"Janine!"

Janine looked up from the book she was looking over with the twins, and saw a breathless and wide-eyed Oscar panting over her.

"Can I use the phone?"

"Go nuts," said Janine.

Oscar had had the foresight to bring Danny's number with him. He whipped it out of his pocket, and dialled.

"Hello?" came Danny's voice.

"Mood Slime."

"What?"

"Mood Slime!"

"Oh," said Danny, without any further questions. "Oh, yes, I like it!"

"It's sort of a compromise, really," said Oscar. "I mean, it _could_ mean something else."

"Really?" asked Danny. "What?"

"Well…"

"Oh. Oh, yeah, I see what you mean - there's kind of an ick factor to it, isn't there?"

Oscar nodded rapidly. "There really is. But we don't mind that, do we?"

"No," said Danny. "God, no. I'll call Tim and Ella to ok it with them, shall I?"

"Just make sure they agree," said Oscar, "because I am not watching that goddamn movie again."

"I'll do my best," said Danny. "Look, Oscar… any news on the…?"

"No," Oscar said quickly, cutting a glance at Janine.

"Right. I'll see you at school tomorrow, then."

Oscar thought about inviting him to the party on Saturday, but quickly decided against it. He just didn't feel ready to bring his new friends into his wider circle yet. So he said simply, "Yeah, see ya," and hung up.

x x x

Party time, at last. Peter gave Kevin a little nudge and said, over the blare of the music, "It's going really well, isn't it?"

Kevin wasn't so sure. It didn't look very much as though Oscar was enjoying having his face sucked off by Julie Prescott. He said as much to Peter.

"Well, no," said Peter, "but she isn't the only one who's interested."

Kevin nodded grimly. She certainly wasn't.

Oscar ended the kiss by pulling his head back sharply. He looked momentarily stunned, and then switched on that very charming smile of his and said something next to Julie's ear. She smiled and nodded. He extracted her arms from around his neck, and disappeared into the kitchen. Lucy Armitage followed him in.

A couple of minutes later Oscar re-emerged, went over to Kevin and said, "Kev, is there something in the water at your school?"

"I'm sorry," said Kevin. "The guys are really starting to hate you."

Oscar shrugged. "Well, never mind - it's still a really fun party."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Oscar!" A very pretty dark-haired girl appeared at Oscar's shoulder and demanded shrilly, "Where did you go? You said I could have a dance!"

"So I did," Oscar said suavely, and took her hand. "Excuse me, Kevin."

"Great party, Kevin," added the girl, waving over her shoulder as Oscar led her to the dance floor.

Kevin shook his head incredulously and said, "Is he _that_ attractive?"

"It would seem so," said Peter, watching Oscar carefully and thinking, _This is more like it_. He seemed to be enjoying dancing with this girl, whoever she was, but then again he was just somebody who liked to dance. Still, he at least seemed to be enjoying the attention now. A couple more girls had started hovering, and from the look of it Oscar was laughingly directing them into a queue. Peter thought wistfully back to his own youth. Ah, to be fourteen again.

"Kevin?" he said.

Kevin looked at him. "Yes?"

"Thanks for inviting me."

x x x

The party ended, Sunday happened, and then Oscar's birthday happened. It was good. His friend Rachel called from LA. He received cards and, more to the point, cheques from all three sects of grandparents, and from Dana's two brothers and their families. He even seemed to have a small orgasm over his new guitar. For the first time in weeks, Peter forgot all about that stupid portrait of Arthur Woodcock, or whatever the hell his name was. At long last, things really seemed to be looking up.

Until Tuesday night.

"OSCAR! What in God's name have you _done_ to yourself?"

Oscar, ignoring his mother's question, swept past Peter and Dana where they sat on the sofa and surveyed himself in the mirror above the mantelpiece. He just looked at himself for several lingering moments, then brought up his hands and started running his fingers through his hair, working it into spikes.

"Tell me it's not permanent," Dana said desperately.

Still Oscar said nothing. He just continued working his fingers through his hair, which had thoroughly shocked Dana by suddenly becoming a deep cobalt blue. He watched himself carefully, and then at last lowered his hands, apparently satisfied, and flashed himself his best smile. Ella had been right: it really _did_ bring out the colour in his eyes.

"Oscar…" said Dana.

He spun round at the waist and said, with an edge of challenge in his voice, "_Now _do I look like Andre?"

Dana, apparently with more no words left in her, shook her head.

Oscar nodded. "Good." And left.

There was silence for at least a minute, possibly more. Peter watched Dana's face, on which her initial look of surprise and sheer horror seemed to have frozen. Finally he said, "I wonder why he did _that_."

"To annoy me," Dana said decisively. "It must be part of the payback for making him move, but it'll be for my benefit - he'd know _you_ wouldn't care."

"I think it looks pretty good actually," said Peter. "I'm not convinced he's trying to punish either of us this time, though. You heard him: he seems to want to disassociate himself from Andre. Which is great, of course," he added hastily. "But why…? Oh, wait - I know."

Dana looked at him expectantly.

"I think perhaps Andre might have forgotten his birthday."

"Oh God, of course." Dana exhaled heavily, seemed to consider for a moment and then suddenly got to her feet, infuriated. "How could he forget? I'm going to kill him!"

"Who - Andre?"

"Of course Andre! March eighteenth nineteen eighty-eight - I was lying in a hospital bed in agony with my feet in a couple of stirrups and a doctor constantly… _probing_ me. I lost nearly two pints of blood and had to be wheeled off the ward while I was still half-asleep. How can he not remember that? Why does he find it so hard just to…? Oscar deserves better than… than…" Her voice cracked as she said, "Oh Peter, why didn't he _tell_ me?"

Peter looked up at Dana, worried by the sudden deterioration in her voice, and saw that her eyes were shining with unshed tears. He stood up, put his hands on her arms and said soothingly, "Maybe he doesn't want you to know that it actually upsets him. Or maybe he didn't want you to confront Andre about it. You know he hates it when you call him and yell at him."

"Or maybe he just hates _me_."

"He doesn't hate you, Dana. And he'll get over this. He's a good kid - he's just been knocked out of whack."

That, Peter thought, about summed it up. Suddenly everything about Oscar, the happy little boy he had raised and loved, was changing: his voice, his temperament, his relationship with his parents and now even his appearance. _If he goes on at this rate_, Peter thought sadly, _in a week or two I'll barely even recognise him_.

"I don't understand," said Dana. "Andre forgets his birthday so he dyes his hair blue?"

"Well," said Peter, trying to sound sure, wanting to comfort her, but no longer feeling certain of anything. "It's all a rich tapestry. Puberty, the move, now this - it's a lot to take all at once."

Dana sighed, deeply and despairingly. "I wish he'd let me help him."

"Yeah." Peter pulled her towards him and wrapped his arms around her. "Me too."

x x x

"Oscar, if you dye your hair and then sit with your back to the rest of the world, how the hell are we supposed to recognise you?"

Oscar snapped out of his trance and looked up in surprise. After a short search he had found a secluded corner of the school grounds, right outside the science department, with a convenient fire escape for him to sit on. He hadn't expected to be disturbed there.

"Sorry," he said.

"It looks great."

"You think so?" He was still secretly mourning his sleek black ponytail.

"Sure." Danny sat down next to him, on the small space available. No other fully grown person Oscar knew could have fitted there - not even Kylie Griffin. When Danny sat, their hips and thighs moulded together. "What made you change your mind?"

"About dyeing my hair?"

"Yes."

"Oh God, I don't know. Everything."

"Right," said Danny. "Well. Angst is good for aspiring musicians."

Oscar smiled slightly. "Yeah."

"What are you doing here?"

"Nothing." He glanced over his shoulder, looking up at the fire escape as it shrank into the rest of the building. "Being a fire hazard. Um, look, Danny, I… I really don't think I'm gay."

"Ah." Danny nodded. "Well, you know what they say - all the good ones are straight."

"I thought they said all the good ones were gay."

"Do they? Oh, well - _you're_ not really a good guy, are you?" and he took the liberty of running a splayed hand over Oscar's hair.

Oscar sighed. "I used to be."

"And now?"

_And now I don't know what I am. _Well, he wasn't going to say that - it would sound ridiculous. He shortened it to, "I don't know." A pause, then, "I'm sorry I'm not gay."

"Don't be sorry."

"But I _am_ sorry - I really _wanted _to be gay."

Danny blinked. "Can I ask why?"

"Anything to piss off my dad."

"Which one?"

"I guess both of them. But I was thinking more of Peter."

"He'd have a problem with it, would he?"

Oscar furrowed his brow in thought. "He's not homophobic. I hope. But I really think he'd have a problem if his own son… stepson… turned out to be gay."

Danny leaned over and nudged him with his shoulder. "You still love him."

"It's difficult to stop loving somebody after ten… eleven… twelve years." He didn't know which it was - he couldn't recall specifically the moment he had started loving Peter.

"Well," said Danny, "_my_ dad will hit the roof. I'm considering never telling him."

"Sounds like a plan."

"I don't suppose," said Danny, "you feel like you can tell me your middle name now? I mean, having let me kiss you twice…"

"Why do you want to know my middle name?"

"I've just got this thing about knowing people's middle names - if I don't know I wonder. Look, it's not like I'd use it against you - I've got something _much_ better on you since we kissed."

"True," Oscar conceded. "All right. It's Wilhelm."

"Oh, it could be worse," Danny said encouragingly.

Oscar didn't contest this. Danny was probably right. It was only German for William, after all. He was pretty sure he had been named after Bach, both of his parents - both of the parents that had named him, that is - being into classical music in a big way. He didn't know where they'd got Oscar from. The only famous Oscars he knew were Oscar Wilde and the green thing on _Sesame Street_ that lived in a trashcan. Oscar Wilhelm Wallance was, he thought, a pretty terrible name. He had thought about calling himself Oz a couple of times, but when he moved to New York his anger had been enough to make him forget, and now it was too late.

"Are you _that_ sure?" asked Oscar, after they had sat in companionable silence for some minutes, assuming Danny would know what he meant. "You're only fourteen."

"Ah, well," Danny said sagely. "Can we ever be sure of anything?"

"No." Oscar shook his head firmly. "We never can."

THE END


End file.
